


Thine Heart to Conquer

by FrozenPenguin



Series: And I'll give you all my Hart(win AUs) [1]
Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Arthurian AU, Eggsy & Roxy Bromance, Explicit Sexual Content, Fantasy AU, Firsts, Hand Jobs, Hero Worship, Homophobic Language, Knight House Politics, M/M, Masturbation, Minor Original Character(s), Night Terrors, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Violence, WIP
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-31
Updated: 2016-04-21
Packaged: 2018-04-02 03:09:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 28,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4043545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrozenPenguin/pseuds/FrozenPenguin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Arthurian AU everyone asked for, with the explicit content warning no one asked for.</p><p>The King’s Men, the most adept and decorated Knights of Camelot, choose apprentices for their Houses among the young and accomplished sword fighters of the capital.</p><p>Galahad chooses Eggsy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_-_

_Mine eye and heart are at a mortal war_

_How to divide the conquest of thy sight;_

_Mine eye my heart thy picture's sight would bar,_

_My heart mine eye the freedom of that right._

_-Shakespeare, “Sonnet 46”_

_-_

_Chapter 1_

As a child, there is nothing Eggsy wants more than to be a Knight of Camelot.

His father had been one, a House Knight in the House of Lancelot – a most prestigious title to bear for a lowborn. And Lee Unwin had been a good knight, courageous and accomplished in every way, chivalrous and kind until the day he died.

In the service of King and Country, said the announcement. It was a pretty way of saying “murdered”.

He would have been the next Sir Lancelot, the guardsmen would tell him kindly, but it did nothing to soothe the hurt. The damage was done, and his father wasn’t coming home to stop his mother’s crying.

He had been five, then, and unable to do much to help her support their household. The house he had grown up in was soon left for more affordable rooms in the outer citadel. Selling homegrown herbs and flowers in the markets could only get them so far, and not very far at all when the winter months set it.

Eggsy learns pickpocketing and petty thievery more out of necessity than hunger when his mother falls ill. Sickly throughout the winter, she could hardly ask how he brings bread to the table and medicines for her cough, and if she notices any bruises from the times he gets caught she doesn’t mention it (although her heart breaks a little with every occurrence).

His mother returns to health (thank Goodness), and Eggsy stops stealing medicines from the shops. But he has gotten good at picking pockets and swiping apples off the market stands, and with his mother anxious for his small, scanty body she cannot gripe with him when they both go a little fuller to bed at night.

Eggsy also learns how to fight. Again, it’s out of necessity. After his first growth spurt, after which he looks less like a malnourished toddler and more like a jittery street rat, the local thugs get their kicks from pushing him around. He picks up how to throw a well-aimed punch and how to dodge one, but more importantly, he learns how to run away.

If he plays the role of a bullied youngling with a bit of spark in him still (which isn’t hard, as that’s what he is), the castle guards find some entertainment in teaching him how to wield a knife. One gives Eggsy his own when he shows up one day with a particularly nasty bruise, and Eggsy feels a lot safer with a small pocketknife in his shoe.

For an honest living, he runs errands for the locals. It’s mostly for merchants, farmers, and apothecaries (once they start trusting him again), as well as the occasional watchmen or visitors who come through the west gate. The pay is for the most part meagre, but the perks are very much worth it once he becomes a regular face around the shops. He finds the bakers might give him a hot loaf to take home (because they can’t sell those that are charred, even just slightly), and the merchants might spare some wool for his mother to knit, or ripened fruits and vegetables for their supper. Eggsy once even receives an entire roll of weaved cotton (because the damp of the rain had miscoloured a piece of it), from which his mother sews him larger clothes to last for some time, because he just won’t stop growing and his ankles have been bare all spring and summer.

When he has seen twelve whole winters and nearly as many summers, Eggsy learns some different things. Never has he completely forgotten about his childhood dream, and the temptation is too great to pass up when he finds himself sneaking into the upper citadel to watch the sword fighting in the court barracks.

There are dozens of men out swinging swords in the blazing sun, filling the air with the clinging of metal and vulgar cheers. There are rivers of cool water and fresh sweat running down battle honed bodies, and muscles that flex and loosen under tan and scarred skin, and Eggsy finds himself watching the men themselves as much as their duels. The unfamiliar churning in his stomach and twitch in his smallclothes surprise him to the point of almost revealing himself with a clumsy stumble, but he ends up leaving as unnoticed as he came, albeit a bit worse for wear.

When he returns the next week, he is a bit more knowing, and a bit more tried, but it still takes him another month to realise why he doesn’t find spying on the tavern girls equally exciting.

Eggsy is 13 when Dean happens, and his mother is very happy for a good while. At first, he isn’t so bad, or at least he doesn’t show them he is. He brings Eggsy gifts in the form of tiny toys and trinkets and takes his mother to dance at the tavern, and for a while, Eggsy trusts the man who has come to woo his mother’s broken heart.

Dean wants Eggsy to run errands for him, too, and, at the start, he sees no harm in it – just a few more runs to some shadier parts of town, which is nothing he can’t handle. Only after the first few times he acts as Dean’s running boy does he think on how strange the customers are and how Dean would handle sums a bit too large to be income from selling simple cough remedies.

Dean’s street rats hang around their house and the tavern a lot more, too. The locals don’t take kindly to them, as they are rude and scare customers away. When they went away on “business” as they called it, they would return with their knuckles bloodied and pockets full and they would buy a few rounds of decent ale and flirt crudely with the tavern girls. Though idle and bad company in general, they talk to Eggsy like a bothersome little brother and teach him some bad words, and “what a lady likes” (though he will never tell them how little that interests him), and some underhanded tricks to use should he even get into trouble. Eggsy finds he doesn’t mind them too much.

Though he remains suspicious of Dean and his rats, he finds that life is good for a while. Dean buys him some brand new shoes and gets his mother new dresses, and there is always just enough food on the table, so Eggsy stops picking pockets and swiping apples.

Eggsy is 14 when Dean’s opium supplier is caught and Dean’s business fails him. First, he drinks and drinks, and then drinks some more, and then the money runs dry. It’s about then he starts beating on his mother, and there is _nothing_ Eggsy can do about it. The first time he tries, he is smacked across the house and out the door where Dean has his thugs finish the job. Eggsy thinks they might have regretted then showing him those dirty tricks when he pulls his prized knife at them, but there are five of them and Eggsy is so, so small compared to the lot of them, so they pry his knife away from his little fingers and give back twice over for every hit he got in on them.

So Dean keeps drinking and keeps throwing his fist around when things don’t go his way, and the only way Eggsy can stop him from beating his mother is take the beatings himself. Eggsy learns more about running away from thugs, but a whole lot more about staying still and letting the hurt become a familiar ache. He starts picking pockets again when Dean sells his mother’s dresses.

When he is 16, more filled out and surer of himself, Eggsy tumbles in the hay with a handsome farm boy from outside the gates. They are both young and foolish and have no idea what they’re doing, but it still feels so good when they kiss and touch and stroke each other with firm, nervous hands until they both find release up in the warm, secluded barn loft.

Eggsy sees the boy once more after that, in the market just as he has finished running an errand, and he is lovely and familiar when he steals Eggsy away into a dark corner and ravishes his mouth and claws at his trousers. Eggsy, of course, gives as good as he gets, and they are both so hard and wanton and blissfully unaware when a pair of Dean’s thugs comes by them and sees Eggsy.

The surprise on their faces would’ve been laughable if Eggsy hadn’t been completely terrified that they had seen him getting off with a boy and would definitely tell Dean and have him beat up all over for being caught a cocksucker. So Eggsy sends the farm boy running and sets off himself when they call out to him and jest and jeer that they will see him later anyway.

They do tell Dean, but when Eggsy reluctantly comes home that night, biting his cheek and preparing for the worst, all he gets is a petty slur in front of his mother about how Dean is sure he takes cock just as well as she. Though embarrassed by his mother’s wide-eyed shock, he goes to bed without a new bruise that night.

The following day is when it gets very, very bad. The sky is cloudy and promises rain, and he is finishing up his errands like the day before when he sees Dean’s rats make their way out of the tavern.

He tries to walk away unnoticed, but one of them sees and shouts out to him, “Oi, Eggsy! I’ve got somethin’ for you!” crudely grabbing his crotch, and the rest howl with laughter.

He ignores their taunts and continues down the street and then down an alley, for a shortcut, realising too late that a few of them followed him when they push him into a wall.

“Hey, Eggsy! You answer when we’re talkin’ to you, you get me?” the first one warns, and when he scrambles to get away the other two slam him back into the wall. He grits his teeth as their breaths, soured from ale, waft over his face while they keep him in place. “—you hear me, Eggsy? I said to fuckin’ answer me!”

His head is knocked against the wall again, but he stays silent. They are not very happy with his defiance, and a hard fist to his stomach knocks the air out of him as he sinks to his knees.

“Just how you like it, innit?” they jest and tug on his hair, keeping his head raised so that he has to look at their sneering faces. “Heard Dean say you take it from your mum—right beauty she is, and you ain’t got a bad mouth on you either. You’d both make far better coin working the tavern ‘stead of runnin’ ‘round town like you do.”

Eggsy growls at them to fuck off, unable to remain quiet when they slander his mother as well as him. They slap him across the face for it, and he knows it will bruise in the morning.

“Why don’t we give you some practice before you start—teach you how to use that pretty mouth?”

At first, he doesn’t think them serious – it was just another quip at his expenses – but when they suddenly close in and tighten their grips to hold him still, Eggsy starts to think they really mean it. He panics, and struggles relentlessly when the first one loosens his trousers and bites the thumb that attempts to pry his teeth apart. That earns him another smack across the face, and he uses the momentum to throw himself out of the grip they have on him.

They are on him again in a second, and he kicks, and screams and throws wild punches as they pull on his limbs and his clothes, cussing him out when he lands a hit, but retaliate by punching his stomach again. He tastes blood in his mouth, and his logic tells him so cease fighting, just lay down and take it as he always does, but his instincts scream for him to break free.

Though his struggles never cease, there are three of them and only one of him, and they have him pushed to the muddy ground and held down in no time at all. Somehow, they’ve managed to loosen the drawstring of his trousers, and he feels so helpless and exposed, and so very, very angry with himself for his weakness.

He keeps screaming, and shouting and crying when they pull his smallclothes down but someone must have heard him, for they don’t get any further before a group of watchmen come upon them and break off what they think is a brawl. Once they are off him, Eggsy pulls his trousers up and runs, and runs, and runs, and locks and barricades his door when he goes to sleep that night, crying hot tears and so very, very angry that he is so weak and so helpless.

Then Eggsy learns to use his anger.

After the incident, he happens to run an errand for a smith who had come with the watchmen that night and seen what had happened. When confronted, his first instinct is to deny being the boy who was assaulted behind her shop, but she turns out to be meaning to aid him. She is a former swordswoman turned smith, and after hearing of his ailments with Dean and his henchmen, she offers to train him in combat and sword art.

Eggsy finds that he is good, a natural even, at handling blades of all sizes, but it would do him little good when he couldn’t casually carry a sword around the streets without Dean’s thugs noticing and having a go at him for his cheek. But he also learns to punch harder and dodge better, and he takes far less beatings from the thugs when he knows how to avoid them. He decides to save up for a proper sword, anyway, so that he one day can drive the blade straight through Dean’s ale-rounded belly.

When he is 18, he learns he is getting a baby sister. Though he hates her at first, while still unborn, as though she is just another way for Dean to make his mother’s life difficult, he quickly learns to love and adore the beautiful baby girl that the town physician hands him after his mother’s labour. They name her Daisy, their gorgeous little flower, blooming in the muck that their lives have become.

But with Daisy came another mouth to feed, and Eggsy finds himself working harder and harder to put food on the table. Dean isn’t much help, as he had gotten himself locked up for tavern bawling the week before Daisy’s birth. Not before after the winter did he saunter back into their lives as if nothing had happened, fawning over “his baby girl” even though, if anything, Daisy is _his_ , not Dean’s—for while she deserves better than a piss poor, thieving brother as a father figure, Dean falls to the bottom of the list of good influences. In the end, three weeks is the limit of Dean’s fatherly love, and Eggsy takes care of Daisy more than anyone.

When Eggsy is 20, he hates Dean more than ever.

He often confides in Ryan and Jamal, his two only trusted mates, of how he dreams of doing him in one day. He doesn’t tell them how he will first, slowly and painfully, murder his henchmen for what they had done to him, all those years ago. Through the last year, saving money has been a luxury he could scarcely afford, but he had managed to set aside just enough to pay for a decent blade.

It is Eggsy’s intent to go look for a sword when he walks out of the house that morning, his secret savings safe in his pockets, but instead he finds Dean’s thugs waiting for him by the tavern for whatever godforsaken reason. He is, by now, used to their banter and jests and knows he can easily outrun them.

They are however determined to rile him up today, to no avail first, but soon enough they strike gold. When they say that they'll go after Daisy as well, once she starts running about town alone at night, Eggsy sees red.

Before he knows it, he has turned on his heels. He strides up to the lot and, without warning, knocks the sneer off the first thug’s face by punching his nose in. He goes down, but the four others descend on Eggsy who is not about to make the swift retreat he knows he should be going for. Instead, he punches and kicks, and somehow ends up with the shaft of a broom, picked from the hands of a nearby shopkeeper and broken over a thugs head.

In his rage, Eggsy fights and fights and throws punch after punch. There is no planning behind his moves; they are all fuelled by his massive anger and the burning need to murder the bastards who had dared threaten his sister. They fight back, and he will have bruises blooming by the afternoon, but he can’t bring himself to care. So he punches, and punches, and drives the shards of the broom into anyone who comes after him, until he has one bastard by the neck and he keeps punching and smashing his face in, feeling the bones crunching under his fists, and he keeps going and going until—

“ _Stop!_ I command you in the name of Camelot, let go of than man!”

A party of watchmen have just come through the gates, followed by a few men on horseback who Eggsy realises are _Knights_ , and they quickly have them all surrounded. He drops his bloodied hands and the equally tainted remains of the broomstick, his heart still pumping hot blood through his veins.

Eggsy knows he is in trouble, and the watchmen’s captain emphasizes this by issuing his arrest. He closes his eyes and thinks of Daisy and his mother alone with Dean for whatever time they put him away for, when a clear voice rings over all other noises and halts all other movements, and the clinking of horseshoes against cobblestone comes to a halt in front of him.

When Eggsy opens his eyes, he looks up at a Knight in full, shining armour, shouldering a crimson cape decorated with an elegantly intricate insignia he doesn’t recognise. His face is as handsome and regal as his dress, lined with tides of combat and wisps of brown hair, and set with smouldering, honeyed eyes that burn themselves into Eggsy’s memory, quite nearly knocking the breath out of his already breathed body.

“What is your name?” the knight says, a command more than an enquire.

Eggsy stutters forth a half-finished “Eggsy” before his mind catches up with him and he changes it to “Gary”, his given name.

“Well then, Gary,” the knight continues, gesturing to the scene in front of him. “As it is, the City Watch has no choice but to bring you in for contributing to public disarray and violently assaulting multiple citizens of Camelot. Do you understand your situation?”

A breath of what might have been “Yes, Sir” leaves him, but the knight continues anyhow.

“I however cannot ignore the prowess you displayed in handling yourself while severely outnumbered. I would like to offer you a way out.”

“Sir Galahad, surely you cannot—” the watchmen’s captain begins to protest, but halts when the knight— _Sir Galahad_ —holds up his hand.

“I’m offering you a place in the court barracks.”

With his chin raised, he does the only sane thing any man could do in the given situation.

Eggsy accepts.


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter 2_

By the small mercies of the world, Eggsy is allowed to go home and pack a satchel of his belongings with the watchmen waiting outside his door. When his mother sees them, she is alarmed and thinks him caught in trouble, but her terror only grows when he explains their presence to her.

She tears up, and presses a hand to her mouth, which poorly conceals a sob, and it makes Eggsy feel just as devastated, for he knows he is hurting her by following in his father’s footsteps. He also knows that, to him, there really is no other choice. His mother is weak. As pathetic as he is, he had always been the strong one between the two of them. He protected her when she should have been the one to protect him—but he doesn’t fault her for it, for she had still been there to dress his wounds and sooth his bruises, and mend the tears in his clothes. They had gotten through it together. Now they have Daisy too, and now he is leaving the both of them.

Though she already mourns his departure, she keeps her tears at bay and helps him find his best shirts and trousers. She packs him her thick, wool socks as well, should the winter set in before he returns (and he doesn’t doubt it will). Eggsy doesn’t own any other shoes than the ones he wears, but he will need sturdier boots if he shall be training in the barracks.

He then remembers his savings. Hurriedly, he takes just enough for himself to buy new footwear, and whatever else he should come to need, and hands the rest to his mother.

“My savings, for you and Dais—don’t let Dean have at it, and it should last you for a bit.” At least he hopes so. He closes her shaking hands around the pouch and promises to send whatever help he can to the two of them, whenever he can.

“Oh, sweet, sweet boy, always thinkin’ of us when you should be mindin’ yourself,” she scolds him, but pulls him close and holds him until a watchman gets impatient and knocks on the door, and Daisy wakes up where she lies in her little crib.

Eggsy says goodbye to his mother and sister, kisses their cheeks and makes them promise to stay safe. He meets the watchmen at the threshold, and then he leaves his little family in that tiny, wretched house. He doesn’t let himself look for too long—the anger and the guilt almost suffocates him.

-

To be in the court barracks means to be training for the opportunity to become a Knight.

It is, of course, terribly competitive to do so, and not everyone will succeed, but the failures are quickly recruited in order to keep novel blood running through the ranks of the garrison. Anyone with a reference from a captain in the Castle Guard, or someone of higher rank, can take a place in the yard.

To be knighted is the greatest honour bestowed upon a swordsman. Many noble families tutor their sons and daughters for years until they enter the barracks, often on the word of a knighted relative or family friend.

Eggsy is therefore not surprised when he steps into the yard to find that most of his peers are from noble families. Mixed in is the occasional outcast who has worked their way up the guardhouses and gained recognition from a captain. The highborn look at him knowingly, lips tugged into arrogant smiles when he trudges through the yard with his tattered shoes and worn satchel. The few lowborn regard him with caution, but still place themselves superior; they’ve been there for a time longer than he. Training had started six weeks past.

He is at a disadvantage, and they all make sure he knows it.

Eggsy arrives in the evening, just as the mess hall opens. Once he is listed in the registry with a sleeping quarter and meal ticket, he is sent there. He thinks on how lucky he is to have two rounded meals and other rations provided for him every day for the time he spends there—it is far more than his mother and sister will have to live on.

His expression sours as he thinks of them, and he refrains from doing so after that. He is there to endure “punishment” for his crimes and receive the training he is promised in return, so that he can go home and end his sufferings once and for all. Surely, he thinks, with what they will teach him, he can make sure Dean and his thugs never touch him or his family again.

The thought satisfies him immensely. With his spirits lifted a little, he goes to the cooks and takes his tray of ale, warm bread and hearty stew, filled with potatoes and carrots, and _meat_ – several juicy pieces of succulent lamb – drizzled with spring onions and salt. Eggsy feels his jaw dropping; he hurries along, praying the cooks won’t catch his momentary embarrassment.

He his halfway across the room, aiming for an empty table at the very back when a cry of “Fresh meat!” comes from behind him (and not from his own head, which is still absorbed with the lamb in his stew). It takes him a second to realise that the cry is meant for him, and he slowly turns around to find an audience of young men looking at him with interest.

“Yes, you! Fresh meat!” one of them says. He is a tall, dark bloke with a sharp and rather becoming face. He claps his hands and gestures to his table. “Come, sit with us!”

Eggsy hesitates, highly aware that they all appear to be highborn; the way they are dressed for leisure gives them away, shirts sewn from fine materials and trimmed with silk thread. Their intentions towards him are impossible to distinguish. Either, Eggsy thinks, they mean to make mockery of him, or they are looking for a manservant to kick around – lest they truly mean no harm, though he gravely doubts this.

“Oh, don’t be shy now!” the man prompts, his smile welcoming yet daring as he further interjects, “It is rather undiscerning to avoid a friendly request to make your acquaintances, seeing you have none in your current society. Don’t you think so?”

The manner of speaking alone, politely suggesting a course of action and s _till_ managing to be awfully patronising, makes Eggsy frown in ire, but he cannot fault the logic and goes to sit with them, nonetheless.

Grinning like cats who have caught a rodent in their paws, they shuffle on the bench and make room for him in the middle so that they have him caged from all sides. It alarms him a little, but he does his best to pay no attention to them when he puts his tray down and goes to take a bite of his slowly cooling stew.

The flavours explode in his mouth, and the meat is as tender as promised. The bread tastes fresh out of the oven, and the ale is not the cheap kind they serve at the tavern. Eggsy has to refrain from moaning as he takes another bite and then digs into his bowl with gusto, realising just how hungry he is, as he has not eaten since the watered oats he had the night before.

He is not halfway through his bowl when the table’s attention comes back to him, and the tall, young man from earlier asks for his name.

“Eggsy,” he tells them, and it earns him strange looks.

“ _Eggy?_ ” one asks, and he repeats that no, it’s _Eggsy_ , most definitely, but it doesn’t seem to register, and he already regrets that he didn’t tell them _Gary_.

“I’m Charlie,” the young man says, and offers him a hand across the table. Eggsy takes it and shakes it firmly, duly aware that his own are far more darkened by dirt and grime; Charlie’s nails are well kept, not cracked and crusted like his, and he knows he doesn’t imagine the glint of revulsion in the other man’s expression as he pulls away.

Charlie then introduces him to the rest of the table – Digby, Rufus, Hugo, Nathaniel and a few more he can’t be arsed to remember the names of – but there are no more handshakes.

“How are you finding the meal?” Charlie asks, and then adds, “Rather repugnant, isn’t it?”

Eggsy can’t tell if he really means it, but knows Charlie is trying to push him out of his comforts, so he answers, defiantly, “I think it’s pretty good.”

A snigger goes around the table; he bites the inside of his cheek to keep from scowling.

“So, Eggy,” Rufus pipes up, and Eggsy can tell he won’t like the question. “Were you born rather far from here, or did they pick you up in a barn outside the east gates?”

They chortle at this, too, and their grins stretch wider when Eggsy says that he’s neither.

“Local, then. Middle or outer citadel?” Digby asks condescendingly, and Eggsy barely opens his mouth before Rufus interrupts.

“Wait, I think I might know you… Did you serve me down at the Little Rooster’s tavern in the southern quarter?”

“Nah, mate,” Eggsy is quick to reply, “But if I had I would have shown you out back where we keep the big ones.” He accompanies this with vulgar gesture, and they all share an amused look.

“Definitely outer,” Charlie concludes, and then crudely says, “So, how many watchmen did you lay with before you got a captain to recommend you?”

“Not nearly as many as you, I bet.”

A chorus of “oh’s” and whistles erupt, even from the neighbouring tables that have halted their conversations to listen in on the banter.

“Gentlemen, I think our tavern-boy has got some spark in him,” Digby announces. “If he swings a sword half as well has he swings his words, we might be in trouble.”

“Mm… I don’t doubt it,” Charlie jests, mouth pursed into a mocking smirk. “He has the filthy mouth of a tavern whore. Lest his mother taught him how to talk like that, I say he’s swung his fair share of swords.”

Eggsy is about to get on his feet and wipe the smirk right off of Charlie’s face with his mug when a young woman on the table across from them makes a show of clanking her cup against the tray as she stands up and glowers at the boys.

“Charlie, lay off,” she barks, and is far more intimidating doing it than she should be, standing half a head shorter than Eggsy who already isn’t the tallest tree in the woods. However, she seems to command some respect among her peers, and he can only guess that she has already shown her worth out it the yard.

“Oh come on, it’s just a bit of harmless play!” Charlie gripes as she walks over, arms thrown out in a display of innocence. The others join his act, but the girl has none of it. She silences them with an ice-cold glare, and then turns to Eggsy with her hand held out.

“Roxanne,” she greets. “But call me Roxy.”

Like before, he hesitates for a second – her hands are as clean and kept as Charlie’s, and his are not – but there is an insistence in her glowing eyes that is hard to refuse, and he shakes her hand as firmly as he dares.

“ _Eggsy_ was it?” she smiles as they let go, then picks up his tray without asking and says, “Come sit with us, Eggsy. I think your current company suffers from a protruding case of _sword envy_ , don’t you think?”

She goes back to her own table, and Eggsy shoots the boys a smug grin before he follows. When he sits down, a chorus of condescending “aw’s” arises from Charlie’s table, and the boys all laugh and whistle, congratulating him on his “deeds”.

Eggsy seethes a little, until Roxy’s reassuring hand lands on his arm.

“Don’t think on it,” she says. “They talk as if they have more right to be here because their parents have dined at court. In the end, we were all endorsed.”

He doesn’t think on it. When he goes to bed that night in the sleeping quarters he shares with nine others, laying down on a mattress that is full of _wool_ , _not straws_ , his mind wanders to other things. Among them, how full he is and how his stomach doesn’t rumble when he tries to sleep, and what tomorrow’s training might entail.

Still, in the morning after breakfast, several of the trainees look his way when he steps out into the yard, calmly calculating every move he makes. Eggsy pointedly disregards them and focuses on the day ahead.

One of their instructors, an army captain of some sort, throws him a blunt practice sword and tells him to show his worth against a seasoned guardsman, and the entire yard stands with battered breaths as Eggsy shatters his defence in single, raging swoop. If they hadn’t been wary of him before, they certainly were now – a street rat who fights like a thunderstorm.

He hears Digby mumble something along the lines of “a right mad barbarian” who must have been born in the wild. “He should be thrown in the dungeons to keep us all safe,” Rufus agrees.

Eggsy, truly, doesn’t think on it.

He knows he is lowborn and not tutored in sword and combat since he could carry one in his hands, but they are there on equal terms.

He also doubts that many, if any of them, were recommended by the word of a King’s Man. Not that Eggsy boasts of it, though it does light a sense of pride in him. Still, he remains grateful to the knight, and he will be for a long time to come.

(He sometimes thinks on the upturn of the knight’s mouth when Eggsy accepted his offer, as if it genuinely pleased him that he did; his parting words of “ _Best of luck with everything”_ still rung clear in his ears.)

But after ten whole months in the barracks, he reasons, Sir Galahad has surely forgotten him.

-

The training is a lot of hard work, but between the rounded meals in the mornings and evenings, the fresh rations they receive during the day, and the soft, warm beds they sleep in at night, Eggsy finds his body adapting to the strenuous bouts of exercise. Muscle fills out his form, and his improved intake gives his cheeks a healthy roundness; his instincts sharpen, and his endurance rises; his hands grow accustomed to swords, spears, bows and maces, and he every part of his body becomes a weapon.

Within the first two weeks, he proves he can hold his own.

In training, they are usually spread out in groups, each with one instructor for a set time. They run them through drills or demonstrate the uses of a weapon or how one best escapes a hold or how to choke a man to death. There are new instructors every week, so Eggsy never bothers learning their names. More often than not, they are set to spar.

Roxy, he learns quickly, is far stronger than she looks. Her agility and mastery of the long-spear makes her a formidable foe, even at a distance, far more adept than many of their peers. Her movements are as graceful as they are lethal, and she has put everyone in the barracks to the ground at least once (a defeat Eggsy is willing to admit to).

She aspires to be the first woman to become a King’s Man, and to that, she will need to gain apprenticeship in a Knight’s House – the more prestigious the House, the better. He doesn’t doubt she will succeed.

Eggsy is not a popular sparring partner. Partially, it’s because of his birth, but chiefly it’s because of how he fights. When he faces his foes, he pulls on his dormant rage and transforms his anger into vigour and force. And he is always so very, very angry. Just one thought to his failures—his mother’s black eye and his own dark bruises, and how very helpless he had been to Dean and his thugs—and he could knock the air out of anyone.

So he uses his anger, and his fighting style shows it. It’s rough and edgy, a blunt force coupled with unexpected moves, and he is not above pulling dirty tricks, if the situation calls for it. Most of the trainees avoid him for it, but those who know they can hold their ground keep challenging him (even after he accidentally breaks someone’s rib).

The months pass by, and Eggsy grows stronger and stronger under the blaze of the summer sun. His twenty-first birthday passes without him noticing, and soon enough autumn surrounds them with the colours of the dying leaves. By then, a few people have left. They are mostly highborn; they possibly hadn’t wanted to come in the first place, but had done so to please their families—the toll of hard work weeded them out. No lowborn trainee could ever think to go; in the barracks, they were fed and given beds to sleep in, and, more importantly, they were given prospects.

Eggsy thinks he is the only one who would leave willingly, now, if given the chance. Though he does his best not to think of them, it is hard being away from his family. It gets better, though. Right as winter is about to set in, he discovers how he can safely send his rations to his mother with one of the kitchen boys. Sometimes Roxy also gives him hers to send on the basis that she is “so small, I don’t need all of it, lest I be overeating.”

In November, his mother sends back a wool blanket. Eggsy knows it must have cost her a fair bit of the savings he left her, but he is ever so very grateful for it, for in December the sleeping quarters are freezing in the mornings. He shares his blanket with Roxy when they learn that it’s easier to keep warm by sharing each other’s body heat. Even when the worst of it passes in February, it’s nice to have the presence of another person there when he wakes up shaking before the dawn breaks.

Eggsy is no stranger to night terrors, but they are very different now that he’s so far away. Without the means to protect his family, Roxy’s understanding smile, and silent promise not to mention it when his pillow is a little damper than it ought to be, is the only thing that keeps him sane enough to stay instead of running away.

In return, he lets her use him for practicing her new manoeuvres, or let out her frustration on a moving target that can actually block her hard kicks. Should she need it, he fills a skin with hot water for her when her abdomen pains her. When she falls ill for a week in February, he brings her breakfast to her bed and lights the fireplace before he leaves.

(The week after, she catches up on her marksmanship by outshooting each and every one of them, although Eggsy still beats her record a few days later.)

There are other trainees he gets along with, such as Roxy’s friend Amelia and the other people in their sleeping quarters. They are on friendly terms and often spend their leisure together, playing games and discussing everything from fighting techniques to new fashions to court politics. Though he knows it would probably benefit him to pay attention to the latter two, Eggsy tends to doze off when the matter of a duchess’ dinner gowns pops up in their conversations.

Hugo, who also sleeps in their quarters, is particularly keen on teaching Eggsy the basics of House policies and structures. Eggsy declines more often than he takes him up on the offer, for if Amelia is there to listen the two of them will undoubtedly find a way to claw at each other’s throats, as they can never seem to agree on anything. Eggsy and Roxy both find this highly amusing, and often leave them to their quarrels in favour of their own little conversations. It doesn’t astound him that the bond he forms with Roxy overshadows all other connections he makes in the barracks.

After the breath of the winter storms shrivels and dies to give way for the sun, spring finally comes to Camelot. The last snow melts in March, and April – and the end of training – approaches steadily. Eggsy is thrilled, for this means he can soon return home.

In the last week of March, they laze by the fireplace in the mess hall during their leisure, most of the other trainees spread around the room or in their quarters, when Amelia mentions the upcoming recruitment. She and Hugo, as is predictable, get involved in a long discussion on the order of the King’s favourite Houses that year, which is very important in regards of prestige.

Roxy had explained to him the process of the recruitments very early on in their training. The weeks before, the trainees of the court barracks would compete as candidates under the subtle watch of the King’s Men and their House Knights. On the day of recruitment, a grand ceremony would be held and each House Head would chose an apprentice from among the candidates to be trained by the knights of the House.

The King was by default the Head of the House of Arthur and commander of the Citadel Knights who acted as the King’s Guard. Once Arthur had chosen his apprentice for the Citadel Knights, he would call for the King’s Men in the order he favoured them, and the knights would proceed to choose their apprentices from the remaining candidates.

By such design, the most popular candidates would be picked by the greatest Houses of that annum, while the lesser Houses would pick from the rest. Only through success as an apprentice could one hope to earn their Knighthood, which could only be bestowed by a King’s Man, or the King himself.

“As I was saying,” Amelia fiercely reasons, “While Sir Lancelot has gained a formidable reputation in the public this year, his House has been too idle for Arthur to place him first. It is rather obvious that House Gawain has far greater achievements under their belts, with their victories over the northern tribes this past winter.”

“Arthur will not place Knights based solely on public opinion,” Hugo argues, leaning forward in his chair. “He is highly subjective, and has been playing favourites for the last decade! House Bedivere is never called later than fifth, for Sir Bedivere is by far the most loyal to him.”

“Even more loyal than Sir Percival?”

“I dare say so!”

“Then I shall dare say House Percival will place far better than Bedivere this year—even better than Lancelot!”

“Goodness me, have mercy upon us,” Roxy moans from the comfort of her chair, and makes Eggsy grin at her dramatic tendencies.

“Roxy!” Amelia demands her attention, “This is a highly important matter to you! You are one of the best candidates—I am surprised you aren’t expressing more interest.”

“I truly have no preference for which House makes me an offer,” Roxy replies, stretching her arms above her head. “Be it Lancelot or Bedivere, I shall make them my conquest.”

“Such cheek!” Amelia exclaims, but they are all in agreement that should Roxy truly aim to conquer a House, she very well might have it done within the next summer. Amelia then turns to Eggsy, catching him off guard when she asks, “And you, Eggsy? What House would you rather train in?”

Eggsy blinks and hums that he hasn’t really thought of it.

“Really? You are one of the top candidates as well, you know,” she prompts, but Hugo seems especially keen on opposing her today.

“He’s a great fighter, no doubt, but the King’s Men are about more than swinging swords and throwing punches. They might dismiss him solely on the grounds of his lacking finesse—no offence, Eggsy.”

“Ain’t taking none,” he mumbles. “’s alright, though. I’m planning on going home soon as they let us out of here.”

“Are you being serious?” Amelia sounds surprised. “Surely, training in a House is more lucrative than going back.”

Eggsy shakes his head, and explains, “I’ve got me mum, and a little sister I haven’t seen in ages. Someone’s got to take care of ‘em, bring some coin home.”

Amelia nods, though she still seems puzzled. “But the apprentice wage far outweighs what you can earn in the outer citadel, to be sure.”

Eggsy does a double take as she says this. “Are you taking the piss?”

Amelia startles. “Oh, um… I didn’t mean to offend—”

“No, I mean,” Eggsy interrupts, “ _Wage._ There is a bloody salary for apprenticing?”

The other three exchange bewildered looks, and then burst out laughing at his expensed.

“Oh, Eggsy,” Roxy coos and strokes his hair. “Did you really not know?”

He doesn’t delight her with an answer.

“Well then, for the argument’s sake,” Hugo begins, “If you had to pick a House, which one would you go to?”

“Ah, shit—I don’t know?” Eggsy groans, although he already has an answer clear in his mind. Instead, he says, “But it’s like you said, innit? I should be right lucky if anyone picks me at all.”

“But for argument’s sake?” Amelia prods insistently, and he knows he can’t escape their querying.

“Well… I think Galahad is pretty great,” he finally admits, and they all stare at him funnily. “What…? Is that a bad choice?”

“No, not at all,” Roxy reassures him. “It’s just… well, Sir Galahad doesn’t really chose apprentices.”

Hugo snorts at this. “I say it’s more like he chooses them without a care in the world for how they’ve preformed, and only when the King forces him to. Then he kicks them out of his halls within the first week. As the rumour has it, there are some very profitable betting pools in the Houses every annum on how long they last.”

Eggsy feels a large stone sinking in his stomach at the shocking news – but then again, it is not as if he knows the knight personally outside of their one short encounter, so he has no foundation of familiarity to sustain his surprise. So Eggsy doesn’t let it show; instead, he gathers himself, swallows the lump in his throat and says, “Oh, right…House Gawain then—Amelia said they were good, so.”

Amelia is grateful for his answer, and shoots an irked Hugo a victorious smile. Roxy however still looks at him strangely, as if she will pull him aside later.

Eggsy shrugs her off for now, and opens himself to the possibility of an apprenticeship. With both freedom and a salary that can surely support his little family—even move them, far away from Dean, if he’s lucky—perhaps he can afford yearning for a long thought lost childhood dream.

Spirits lifted at this revelation, he asks, “So when does the competing begin, anyway?”

“Oh, Eggsy…” Roxy moans, and tells him that the competition had been on all of last week, and Eggsy curses himself for not having known. If anything, the only difference between last week and any old week with some excess sparring was that the other trainees had been especially frustrated with him.

When they go to bed that night, Roxy does pull him aside, as he expects, and he doesn’t meet her eyes when he confesses that he now worries that they really won’t pick him. He is brash and forceful, and he has displayed none of the “finesse” the King’s Men will be looking for, just like Hugo had said.

“Oh, that isn’t true, Eggsy,” Roxy objects softly. She holds his face and forces him to look her square in the eyes as she tells him, “You are strong, if a bit rough…and very skilled – and kind. That is one of the most important traits in a Knight, you know. They would be fools not to choose you.”

He can’t help but smile a little as she says this, but even after she tells him that he really had stood out when the Knights watched them all last week, he falls into a restless sleep of strange, unwelcome dreams.

Among them, he dreams of the ceremony, with all its pompous fanfare and King Arthur calling out name after name. Knight after faceless Knight all walk past him where he kneels. They choose Roxy, and Charlie, and Hugo, and Amelia, and everyone around him. He is all that’s left.

-

For the ceremony, they all wear their finest clothes, as one should when presenting before the King. For Eggsy, this means the second whitest shirt he owns (for the whitest has a terrible tear in the shoulder). He polishes his boots for good measure, and parts his hair with a comb he borrows from Hugo. Roxy, he thinks, looks ethereal in her deep-blue gown, though he shall never be familiar with the sight of her in feminine dress. At her request, he braids her hair, as he has done many times before, and in return, she lends him a gorgeous trimming of hers that she ties around his waist like an ornate belt.

Eggsy still feels severely underdressed where he stands in the Royal Court’s Yard, which is far lusher than the one in the barracks, where the grass is worn away by hours of footwork and scuffling soles. Though grand indeed, his dreams had truly overestimated the pomposity of the affair—there is no fanfare, for one.

The attending knights, however, wear their full attire for the occasion and are every bit as stunning as he had imagined, if not more so. Every inch of armour is polished to shine, each cape is carefully pressed free of wrinkles, and refined, powerful swords with gleaming handles are sheathed in decorative scabbards at each knight’s hip.

Eggsy raises up on his toes, and discreetly looks to see if he can recognise Sir Galahad among them, but it is impossible to spot him in the sea of red, and odd few white capes. He swallows a feeling that tastes oddly like disappointment on his tongue, but is at the same time somewhat glad he hasn’t seen the knight, lest his jittery heart should jump out of his chest.

Ever since that evening in the mess hall, his mind had unwittingly entertained the possibility of being chosen by House Galahad, though Hugo’s haunting revelation always made sure to suffocate the lively daydream every time he does think on it. Eggsy reluctantly agrees with him for he would rather be trained in a House that wouldn’t have him back on the streets within the first few days of his stay, if he should ever hope to carry out his plan to protect his family. There was also the notion that he might not be chosen at all, which had made his stomach churn horribly every night, though he supposes that should it happen he can in the very least go home and work on his original strategy.

The bittersweet anticipation of the day keeps his nerves on a knife’s edge, and his only comfort is that he isn’t the only one. There is ale and refreshments, but most of the candidates are too anxious to touch anything. Eggsy tries the ale, and almost regrets that he can’t enjoy it, as he ought to, for it’s a very good barrel. Roxy keeps his company as they mingle and wait, and attempts to humour him with stories of her brief experiences in court, though he can tell by her twitching hands that she is just as tense and nervous as he.

A herald ascends the stage and knocks his long mace to the wood to silence the crowds. He then announces the entrance of the King Arthur, who Eggsy had imagined far taller and far more kingly than the elderly aristocrat who takes his seat on the ornamented oak-wood throne. He says as much to Roxy, who hushes him immediately, but cannot conceal a wry smile. As the king faces the crowd, the candidates fall into line and are left standing in the yard in long, neat rows.

Arthur welcomes them all to what he describes as a joyous event, made to celebrate the proficiency of their Kingdom, and the ability of their coming generations. As he delves into a detailed history of the Knights and their deeds, Eggsy’s mind slowly drifts. He studies the King’s aging face, but quickly bores of it and instead turns to study the knights, crowded together along the north wall of the yard.

They have all donned a sombre expression, and some wear it better than others. There is one though, a tall handsome man dressed in white, who stands out among them as he is practically bouncing on his heels. Just as Eggsy leans forward to observe his character better, the man abruptly turns and faces the candidates with a wide grin.

Eggsy startles at the suddenness of it, and is then twice surprised when he catches the last of the King’s speech, which ends in “—welcomes Charles Hesketh.”

Before he knows it, Charlie—with a so very haughty, infuriating smile curling his lips—proceeds to the stage, for he has apparently been chosen for the King’s House apprenticeship. There are plenty of men and women amongst them who deserve it so much more, and it makes Eggsy seethe where he stands.

As Charlie kneels and swears his loyalty, Roxy leans up and whispers in his ear, “King Chester has always been a traditionalist. There are no lowborn, nor any women in his King’s Guard— only men like Charlie.”

It makes Eggsy feel a little less frustrated, but just as infuriated.

There is applause, which the King soon silences before he goes on to announce his most highly favoured house of the annum. “I call the honourable Sir Gawain of his House.”

A broad, fair man clothed in white approaches the stage and bows before the king. Amelia is smug as her predictions had borne fruits, but she isn’t given time to gloat for long when Sir Gawain turns to the crowds and calls out, “The House of Gawain welcomes Hugo Higgins.”

Even Roxy is surprised when Hugo all but leaps for the stage, briskly passing them with a wide-stretched grin and Eggsy truly hopes the man doesn’t let it go to his head.

On the other hand, he is rather glad to see that the knights won’t walk among their rows, like they had in his dream, as they are far less intimidating standing by the stage than he knows they would be only steps away from them. Eggsy also realises the men bearing white capes must be the King’s Men, who do not wear Camelot’s signature red for the occasion, and he further recognises that he has been looking for Sir Galahad in the wrong places. Before he can look in the right ones, however, Hugo is already off the stage with Sir Gawain leading him to the gathering of knights, and the King calls the next House:

“I call the honourable Sir Galahad of his House.” Eggsy’s heart nearly stops, and then its thumping rises steadily while he looks around for the man in question.

But no one takes the stage.

A tall, bald man clad in a cape that is half-red and half-white—and Eggsy can’t decide whether he is a knight or not, for his armour is far lighter than the standard knight’s—hurries to the King’s side, and the two speak softly. The entire audience strain their ears to listen, but then the King nods and the bald man leaves as quickly as he came, and no one has any idea what might have been said between them.

The King clears his throat and proclaims that due to unforeseen circumstances, Sir Galahad has not yet arrived for the ceremony.

The cold feeling that follows tastes like ash in his mouth, and he doesn’t understand _why_. He is there to be chosen, and in the end, he’d rather it not be by Sir Galahad, who throws his apprentices out the doors within the first week. But, he reasons, if anyone would chose him at all, it certainly _would_ be Sir Galahad who had already done so once before.

So his eyes search the King’s Men, as if he is hoping to prove the announcement wrong. But instead of Sir Galahad, his eyes find the strange man from earlier ( _King’s Man_ , he reminds himself), still bouncing on his heels and smiling widely in his direction, his sharp eyes specifically on Eggsy. He isn’t yet sure of this assumption, until a moment late when the man downright points him out to another knight.

Eggsy startles, curious and perplexed, but doesn’t get to think on the meaning of it before the King speaks again.

“Alas, we cannot wait for his arrival and the selections shall continue,” Arthur carries on. “Next, I call the honourable Sir Percival of his House.”

Percival choses Roxanne Morton. Roxy is as radiant as a summer sun as she ascends the stage, and Eggsy can’t help the broad smile that tugs on his lips. Amelia is also smiling, partially for her friend’s fortunes, partially for her own correct assumption that Percival would place higher than both Bedivere and Lancelot.

Eggsy joins the applause loudly as Roxy leaves the stage with Sir Percival, and she flashes him a smile before she joins the side of her King’s Man and confidently greets his House Knights. He watches her, still fluttering with pride and joy for his friend, until the buzzling of the crowd falls once more for the next announcement.

“I call the honourable Sir Lancelot of his House,” Arthur continues, and Sir Lancelot turns out to be the strange knight who had caught his eye not a minute ago.

Sir Lancelot _hums_ as he ascends the stage, quick and graceful, as if he flew rather than walked there on his own two feet, and once he has shown his respect for the King, he turns around and his eyes find Eggsy again, who feels like a butterfly is let loose in his gut when Lancelot opens his mouth and says:

“The House of Lancelot welcomes—”

Just as Sir Lancelot begins speaking the word that surely, _surely_ is going to be his name—which is both terrifying and thrilling at the very same time, for his _father_ had been knighted in House Lancelot—the herald abruptly bangs his mace loudly against the stage, just as the castle doors open, and three knights – two in red, one in white – march out into the yard.

“I present to you Sirs Hildegard, Ulric—and Sir Galahad of House Galahad.”

Sir Galahad is just as regal and handsome as he had been nearly one year ago, Eggsy thinks—and also very late, it seems. Arthur smiles grimly as he ascends the stage, white cape fluttering with his brisk strides, while his companions stay behind; Sir Lancelot’s grin has fallen, and he looks at his fellow King’s Man with a slightly reproachful, yet good-humoured smile. They great each other, and exchange words Eggsy can’t hear over the bustling crowd.

Then Lancelot steps aside and Sir Galahad bows to the King before he, like the knights before him, turns to the candidates. “I sorely apologise for delaying the ceremony, and shall refrain from doing so any further. House Galahad welcomes Gary Unwin.”

Eggsy, at first, doesn’t react to the sound of his name, though he has hung on to every word the knight has spoken since he opened his mouth, and there is a short silence before Amelia forcefully pushes him forward. He conceals his stumble as an excited leap, but every step that follows is made in a mixture of despair and confusion and, disconcertingly, _eagerness_ , and he dares not look up until he ascends the stage. Even as he sinks to his knees before Sir Galahad and the King, his eyes are downcast, for in his raging turmoil he cannot bring himself to look.

Only Sir Galahads deep, acquainted voice keeps him grounded enough to take his vows.

“Gary Unwin—do you swear your loyalty to this honourable House and the Knights who dwell in it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And do you swear gallantly to honour this House, and offer up your heart and soul for the sake of its perseverance, for as long as you live in its Halls?”

He echoes his answer.

“Then I declare you honourable Apprentice in the House of Galahad.”

A hand on his shoulder prompts him to raise his head, and he nearly prays that the hint of a smile on Sir Galahad’s handsome face isn’t solely his imagination.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will have Eggsy moving into the Halls of Galahad, dealing with family problems, and a confrontation with Sir Galahad himself that doesn't turn out the way Eggsy thinks it will...
> 
> You can find me on [tumblr](http://stupid-fat-penguin.tumblr.com/).


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: this chapter contains sexual content (i.e. masturbation), if this makes you uncomfortable please do not read it.
> 
> ON ORIGINAL CHARACTERS: There will be some minor OC's appearing in this story, as the Kingsman cast doesn't offer enough characters to fill their roles, the more prominent being the House Knights of House Galahad. Two of them will make regular appearances, and if you want help to envision them, these are the actors I think of when I write them:  
> *Sir Ulric is based off of Richard Armitage (with his beard)  
> *Sir Hildegard is inspired by Gwendoline Christie (she has a slightly more feminine look than Brienne)  
> *Sir Brom (only mentioned) is based off of Liam Cunningham.

_Chapter 3_

When Eggsy wanders down the streets of the outer citadel, headed home to his mother to share the news, the rest of the ceremony is still a blur in his head:

The scattered cheers as he arose from his knees and seeing Roxy’s anxious face in the crowd as Sir Galahad’s sturdy hand steered him through the gathering of knights had seemed to go on forever, yet his introduction to the House Knights, as well as the remaining selections and affairs on-stage, seemed to have traversed in mere seconds.

Before he knew it, the King left the stage and Sir Galahad was informing him of the following procedures while the crowd bustled around them, slowly scattering and leaving the yard. The knight asked him to meet with Sir Ulric at the gates of the House Halls at sundown, and apologised in advance for his own absence as he had urgent business awaiting him at court that evening.

“Until then, your time is your own. Enjoy yourself. Perhaps you have someone you wish to see?” The last bit was said knowingly before the King’s Man turned and left the yard with his two knights striding gracefully behind him, a practiced ease to their steps as they went. Eggsy had watched them go before he set off to the barracks to gather his belongings, and then head home, his meaning to look for Roxy first entirely forgotten.

Now, an hour later, he is still as befuddled as he had been right after his endorsement. Even now, he still can hardly believe that his recruitment was in the House of _Galahad_ , the very House he had both yearned for, shied from, and was now to apprentice in. Him, Eggsy Unwin, “honourable Apprentice in the House of Galahad” – a grand, terrifying title, indeed.

It is only because the streets have turned familiar to him that his feet carry him to the right door without much effort from his troubled mind, but he first shakes his head and clears his thoughts before he knocks and turns the handle. When he enters and announces his homecoming, the familiar form of his mother rushes up to him and she pulls him into her arms, chanting his name as a blessing as she showers kisses over his face and runs her soft hands over his sharpened jaw and rounded cheeks.

“Oh, by me days look at you! Oh, oh, my dear, dear Eggsy, how handsome you are,” she very nearly sobs where she stands.

He cannot help but smile happily as he wipes her tears away, and tells her, “But so are you, mum—and I must have gotten it from somewhere, yeah?” to which he receives a soft slap for his “cheek”, and she argues that his good looks are all his father (though he knows his mouth, and nose and ears are all her, and the fair colour of his hair was hers as well, in her long passed youth).

They settle in the kitchen and she warms him some honeyed milk she received the day prior from a farmer’s wife who buys her herbs. Daisy is asleep in her crib, but Eggsy is content with having seen her safe and as healthy as he had dared hope. She was just past her two years now, and a right racket according to his mother who says she had spoken her first words soon after he left and hadn’t shut her mouth since. It warms his heart immensely to learn it had been “E’sy”.

His mother urges him to tell her all about his leave, and Eggsy assures her he will: so he tells her of the barracks, of the full meals and the amazing beds with their woollen mattresses, and of the training (though he omits much of the brutality, lest he should have her worry for his wellbeing), and of the friends he has made—of Amelia who is so incredibly perceptive, of Hugo who is incredibly knowledgeable, if a bit dim, and of Roxy who is just incredible all over, and who will make a great King’s Man—and, finally, of his proposal. He excitedly tells her about his apprenticeship with the knight who had spared him from serving jail-time, of the amazing perks he should receive as he trains with the Knights, and even the possibility of gaining his _knighthood_.

“—and there’s a wage, mum, a bloody _salary_ for it! I can care for you and Dais, both of you, get a room somewhere near the castle, maybe—just for the three of us. And we’ll always have enough food and clothes, and whatever we need, and you won’t have to sell flowers no more,” he proclaims proudly, eager to hear his mother’s response to his good news.

Although her face had lightened up through the first half of his story, Eggsy sees that all his talk of knighthood must have made her anxious, for she looks at him not in joy but in worry and disbelief, and Eggsy feels his own eager grin fall as well. A silence stretches between them.

Soon she starts to weep into her hands and Eggsy worries and softly embraces her.

“Mum—mum, what’s wrong?” he asks, anxious to know if it is _himself_ who is the trouble.

As it turns out, his following the path his father took is only partially the reason for his mother’s unrest. Things haven’t been so good at home after he left, with Dean taking more and more money off his mother and sister. In the winter, he had come home with a gambling debt that, unless paid, would have driven them all out of their home. The savings Eggsy had left her had been used to pay the debts, and when Dean learned she had more money than he was aware of, he had taken the rest of it.

“That fucking rat,” Eggsy snarls, his anger lit anew with the news, “Stealing from you, _and Daisy_ —I’ll fucking kill him, I swear, and after I do I’m getting us out of here,” he declares, and gets to his feet, fully intending on finding Dean in whatever tavern he is holed up in, but is stopped by a hand grabbing the sleeve of his shirt.

“No Eggsy, please, listen luv,” she pleads, and sobs again as she confesses, “Dean didn’t steal it—I gave it to him.”

Eggsy freezes, stupefied, for he can’t believe what he is hearing, and asks her what her meaning is.

She sighs distressfully, runs a tired hand through her tangled hair, but goes on to tell him, nevertheless. She says she gave Dean the money willingly to help him start up another business of his that would help them get back on their feet. When he goes to protest that any business of Dean’s would be anything but an honest one, she reasons that without Dean, way back when it was still just the two of them, they would very well have ended on the streets within the next year. Dean had saved them by paying the rent she no longer could afford; now he had hit a bit of a rough, but was trying to climb his way out of it, so it was only reasonable for her to offer whatever help she could.

Eggsy is no less angry, but understands why his mother would think to aid the man who has caused them both so much harm. Without him there, to protect her, she had no one else to turn to.

But Eggsy, in all his ire, vows that this stops now. He once again proposes they move, together, far away from Dean and his goons. He will keep them with him in the Halls for now, until he can afford otherwise – surely the knights would understand – but when he tells her to pack her things, she shakes her head and tells him she won’t.

“I’m so sorry, luv,” she weeps distraughtly. “Even if we go, what then? If you go get yourself killed, too, who’s going to care for us, then? Just like with your father, all o’er, and I won’t have you this time, or Dean. I just can’t do that again.”

Eggsy stills, hesitates as he recognises the sinking feeling of rejection, by his own mother, no less. He thinks for a moment on how he shouldn’t have gotten into that fight so he could have been there for her, been the strong one when she was falling apart. It was too late for that now.

It is when she asks him to stay, with her and the baby, because she “can’t lose you, too”, that Eggsy is convinced that he can’t. The truth is a bitter acid in his mouth, but he knows now that his mother looks at him and can only see his father, his death even in the light of Eggsy’s success, and as much as the guilt weighs him down for it, he tells her that he won’t.

She doesn’t cry this time, her expression betraying that she had expected as much, though she had dared hope. Eggsy can’t allow letting himself be swayed by her broken heart, but he vows he will be back for her—for her and Daisy—to take them away for good, once he has money and a name and a home for them, and if she still won’t come then he will at least take Daisy, for she deserves _better than this_.

Before he takes his leave again, this time only with a small satchel, giving back the wool blanket, and whatever else his broken, little family might need, he tries to make her promise to keep herself and the baby healthy, or at least to do it for Daisy.

His only comfort as he closes the door of that little wretched house again is that should he, like Hugo had said, be kicked out of House Galahad within the next few days, he won’t have to burden his family with his loss.

-

As instructed, he meets Sir Ulric at the gate of the Halls at sundown. He recognises the bulk of him from afar, as he is a rather tall, brutish man, hair dark as charcoal. Yet, despite his potentially intimidating frame, Eggsy finds he is very friendly. He is greeted by a genuine grin and good cheer and manner, and the knight quickly shepherds him through the gates and away from the cool of the evening.

He remembers only very little from what Hugo and Roxy had told him about the historical Halls of the Houses. What he does remember is that the Halls compose a rather large proportion of Camelot’s castle, serving as the living quarters for the Kingdom’s knights and as the residencies of the King’s Men. Each House has occupied their own wing in the keep for centuries, joined together by a shared ground, the Common Hall, where all knights and castle guards may gather in community.

The hall is rather empty at the hour, a few guards lounging around a fireplace, and no red-clothed knights to be seen aside from Eggsy’s guide. Sir Ulric doesn’t lead him through the Common Hall at all, but takes him up a stairwell and further into the castle, talking all the while about his own time in the barracks many, many years ago, bright blue eyes glinting fondly with the memories. Eggsy tries to listen, if only to be polite, but finds himself distracted by the enormity of the castle and its corridors.

By the time they stop by another great door, Eggsy has lost his bearing, and can only guess by the last sunlight through the windows that they have made it to the northern wings. The doors are etched with a simple, yet elegant cross, carved into stained oak wood, and the metalwork is impressively detailed.

“Welcome to the Halls of Galahad,” Sir Ulric announces grandly as he shoves the doors open, and Eggsy can’t deny how his heart beats with anticipation. The inside reveals a grand common room, spanning two floors and bustling with life and warmth from a magnificent fireplace. Several great chairs, cushions, and tables fill the floor. There is a board game of some sort going on in the left-hand corner. Several scrolls and tomes litter a table on his right, and a large gathering of people are sharing drink and making merry by the fireplace. Along with marvellous paintings and tall windows, white banners sewn with an elegant cross in scarlet-red and five silver stars decorate the walls, and all the men and women in the room bear the same emblem on their breasts.

Eggsy stands there for a long minute, taking in the warm, homey atmosphere and the lovely scents of foods and burning wood, and he observes that this must only be a fraction of the Halls, for many corridors and stairways lead away from the common room.

He startles when a man suddenly cries out, “Behold, it’s Sir Ulric!” Every occupant of the room nods their heads with a light-hearted “sir”, and then the crowd by the fireplace cheers and asks him to join them for drinks.

The knight declines, swearing himself on urgent business, to the crowd’s disappointment, though as he leads Eggsy, who no one bothers to more than look at, up another stairwell, his face betrays his longing. To Eggsy he says, “Hildegard should have my head, if she learns I failed to have you settled in for a wee bit of wine. Although, it _is_ _good_ wine.”

Eggsy stifles a snort, but agrees with the knight’s foresight, as the events of the day have tired him out.

Once the stairs are ascended, they enter a hallway filled with doors on both hands. The corridor curves at the end into another, but Sir Ulric halts before they get that far and uses a key on a string to unlock a door.

“Alright, these are your rooms, Mr Unwin,” the knight says and opens the door for Eggsy to enter, and the newly appointed apprentice is gobsmacked at the sight of a rather grand room nearly the size of the barrack’s sleeping quarter, albeit with taller ceilings. It is fully furnished with a reading chair and an ottoman, a well-stocked desk and empty bookshelves, a wardrobe and cupboards in matching wood, and the largest bed Eggsy has ever seen, canopied and made with dark, crimson sheets that look temptingly soft to the touch.

He feels his mouth hanging open, but cannot find the will to shut it as he further explores the rooms with an eager grin. He discovers an ornate fireplace across from his bed, already lit and roaring, and a door that reveals a bathing-room with impressive plumbing and polished wood floors. The water, he understands, must be warmed in the pipes by the fire, and he observes, for a moment, the intricate network that works its way from the wall to a wooden bathtub, far more extravagant than any he has ever used. The chamber pot is put away in the corner. There are also linen towels and washcloths folded on the shelves; a collection of scented oils accompanies them, and he is sure no one in the outer citadel has as much as inhaled the scent of one of these dearly expensive bottles.

When he returns to the bedroom, Sir Ulric smiles expectantly and asks him, “How do you find it?” although he can surely read his response from his astounded expression.

Sir Ulric proceeds to instruct him to be ready after breakfast, as he is scheduled for a fitting with a tailor who will make him his new wardrobe, including the shirts and tunics sewn with the House crest. They also want to get a light armour ready for him to use in his training, and will send someone up from the armoury to see to that. In the meanwhile, he is given an old, slightly too big tunic that bears the white shield on the chest, much like the ones worn by the guardsmen he had seen in the common room.

Once Sir Ulric has handed him his key and bid him goodnight, with the promise of assistance should he need any, he departs, perhaps eager to get back to the wine he had been promised.

Eggsy immediately goes to the bathing-room, and spends the better part of a half-hour solving the mystery of the various taps and levers. He lights a candle while the tub fills, and spends another ten minutes sniffing the scented oils, deciding on one with an aroma that reminds him of his mother’s herbs and fresh lemon juice. He spends another half-hour relaxing into the warm water and letting his senses be clouded by the citrus fragrance.

When done, Eggsy feels fresher and cleaner than he has ever felt in his life. He leaves the linen towels to dry by the fireplace, and grabs an apple from a bowl of fruit to sate some of his hunger, as he hasn’t yet eaten the supper he has grown accustomed to. He is too tired to look for the kitchen, and settles for another apple before he cleans his teeth and prepares for the bed. The softness of the sheets do not disappoint as he lies in them, and the mattress is not filled with straw, nor wool, but something softer, and it feels _heavenly_. _Down,_ his sleep-induced mind supplies him, actual bird down, and he nearly doesn’t believe it.

-

Eggsy awakes with the sun the next day, fresh and rested, free from any exhaustion he might have felt the night prior. After a quiet breakfast in the kitchens and an awkward fitting with the court tailor and a woman from the armoury, he meets Sir Ulric again for a tour around the Halls.

The man seems far less energised than the day before (Eggsy easily recognises the signs of a long, drunken night), but is still kind and courteous as they walk through the rooms and shares what he knows of their use and history.

They start in the kitchens and the common room, both of which he is free to make use of as long as he refrains from disturbing the kitchen staff, moving on to the House Knights’ hallway, which is the one close to Eggsy’s own room that they hadn’t traversed the night before. Also on the upper level, they pass Sir Galahad’s study, as he should need to go there if summoned, and then the library, which overlooks the House’s own courtyard and training grounds. Sir Ulric assures him that while their collection is grand, the one in their keep in White Haven is even more so, as it has collected scriptures from travellers from all over the world for a great many centuries. To Eggsy, this sounds mightily impressive although he knows little of the world outside Camelot other than what he has heard in stories.

They eventually come upon the servant’s quarters, and then the guardsmen’s quarters, and Eggsy asks just how many there are in House Galahad.

Sir Ulric murmurs over this a bit, scratching his trimmed beard and looking as if he is counting the names he comes up with, before he answers that in the castle there are eighteen house guardsmen, all selected and approved by the House Knights, while another ten resides south in White Haven, in the Hartlands.

“As for knights…well, I believe most houses have more, but in House Galahad there has only been three of us for quite some time – Hildegard and I, and good old Sir Brom who spends his time down in White Haven – but Sir Galahad trusts us with his life,” the knight preens as he says this, “which is the greatest honour any House Knight can be bestowed – the trust of his King’s Man.”

Following this confession, Sir Ulric is freer with singing his praises for Sir Galahad, and it becomes evident that he believes the man one of the few worthy of the high acclaim he has received through the decades as a knight and a King’s Man. “A man of true chivalry” and “the Perfect Knight” are terms he makes use of as he describes the achievements of the knight, painting him just so, while Eggsy so far can’t avoid the uncertainty he still feels for being chosen by this man in the first place, though when he says as much to Sir Ulric the knight laughs as if he’s told a good joke, and they say no more on the matter.

Later, once his tour has ended and Sir Ulric leaves him with instructions for the afternoon, he goes to the kitchens for some food – a simple meat pie and an apple – and spends some time relaxing in his room before he heads to the Common Hall at the chime of the afternoon bell to meet the Court Scholar.

When he arrives, he is positively surprised when a bundle of an absolutely livid, yet very, very relieved Roxy crashes into his arms.

They pull apart, and she tells him how anxious she had been that he hadn’t come to see her after the ceremony, for which he expresses his regret. Eggsy then congratulates her in person for her own proposal. She looks lovely in her purple tunic, littered with tiny, silver crosses – the emblem of House Percival – in spite of the fact that it might very well be a dress with her short stature. Very likely, it is temporary, as his own is, and she shall have her very own perfectly fitted clothes to wear for her time in House Percival.

She asks how he is faring, referring to his placement in the notorious House Galahad. He shrugs, as he honestly doesn’t yet know what to think of it in the first place, and though his answer doesn’t make her any less anxious, she is still glad to have seen him.

He also reunites with Hugo and Amelia, and every other trainee picked for an apprenticeship in a Knight’s House. To his chagrin, this also included Charlie, and Rufus and Digby who had obtained their apprenticeships in Houses Kay and Bedivere. He spies them looking at him from across the Hall, surely not at all sorry for his thought to be pending dismissal.

Eggsy pays them no mind, electing instead to listen to Amelia’s frustration with her position in House Geraint. It is to her displeasure as there are already twelve House Knights in their Halls, and unless one of them dies or retires, or is otherwise disposed of within the next year, she knows she shan’t obtain her Knighthood there. Her best choice will be to appeal to another House through her success in House Geraint, though in the end she admits isn’t sure she would make a good knight to begin with.

Roxy comforts her friend and assures her that there are many other viable options to her, to be sure, as her wit and intelligence could be valuable assets in the Scholars’ Order, or in House Ector where the apothecaries train. Even Hugo seems somewhat disgruntled with her misfortunes and gives her his own opinions on how valuable she could be as a court advisor.

They are however soon interrupted by the arrival of the Court Scholar, who Eggsy immediately recognises from the ceremony as the bald man in the white and red cape who had gone up to the King when Sir Galahad had first failed to appear.

His garb is different today: his cape is foregone for a mossy green robe, and any armour or weapons he might carry are concealed in it. He is bespectacled, Eggsy notices, thin, barely notable frames resting on his sharp nose, and altogether – with his very tall frame and menacing dark eyes – he looks nothing like a master of the scripts, and more like the battle-hardened knight Eggsy first had nearly mistaken him as.

He introduces himself as Merlin, “the Court Scholar, as you all should know by now,” and also the King’s supervisor of all magical artefacts and sorcery used in the Kingdom.

Eggsy finds the last part very interesting, as he hasn’t yet seen any sort of magic use in his life, and knows that many don’t believe such a thing as sorcery to exist. As if sensing his curiosity, Roxy choses that moment to tell him that by “magical artefacts” and “sorcery” the court really means whatever ancient machineries and new phenomena they cannot yet understand, and his excitement diminishes greatly.

Merlin silences their whispering with one brief look, and then carries on. “I am here on behalf of the King and the King’s Men to inform you that while your Houses are chiefly responsible for your training for knighthood they do not have the time to nit-pick on every single basic knowledge and skills you are shown to lack. Therefore, the Order of Scholars–and myself by extension–has been assigned to be your supervisor in areas such as general weaponry and armoury expertise, survival techniques, and academic progression.

“You will all meet with me here, in the Common Hall, three days a week, unless requested otherwise by myself or your respective House Heads. Failure to abide by any rule set by the Order is, from now, considered an offence to the Houses, and will result in dire consequences,” the scholar explains, his voice cold and grave, keeping his audience pinned with his decisive stare.

Something about the stance he holds and the knowing look in his eyes promises him more than capable of dealing out suitable punishment, should it be needed, and from then on Merlin is the most terrifying man Eggsy has met since his recruitment.

At last, he says almost as a reminder, “Wherever you go from now you represent your House, and you have sworn to honour it. You had all best remember that. Understood? Good. Dismissed.”

-

Eggsy dines with Sir Ulric and the house guardsmen that night. The servants have prepared a succulent roast for the evening that melts on his tongue, and between bites and drinks of ale, he finds himself idly conversing with the other occupants of the table. He is by then on friendly terms with Sir Ulric, whom he has learned much about the last two days, but finds that even when talking to the guardsmen they are reluctant to make his acquaintances, and far more interested in talking amongst themselves of their own business.

He doesn’t let it bother him much, as he understands that they would rather not spend time on a young trainee that would surely be gone in a few more days. It’s an unpleasant realisation that he has only survived one whole day thus far, but he tries his best rather to enjoy the luxuries he had received for now, instead of worrying about his eventual demise.

He goes to bed, and, once again, falls in love with the softness of the mattress that he knows is only afforded by knights and high nobles. Without meaning to, he thinks on how Sir Galahad must sleep, whether his bed is larger and softer, or just like his own, but then quickly scolds himself for having such useless thoughts, and instead dreams of wandering the castle halls, discovering secret hallways and magical artefacts hidden in the depths of the dungeons.

In the morning, two finely made tunics and complementing trousers arrive for him. They are sewn from a deep red, comfortable material, and House Galahad’s shield is stitched neatly on the front.

He wears them that day, along with the all-new leather belt and boots he receives, and is busy adjusting the buckle when a servant knocks on his door and calls on him, to his great surprise, to have breakfast with Sir Galahad.

Eggsy is unfathomably short of breath when he arrives in the formal dining room, which is just beyond the kitchens. The morning’s sunlight shines in through the east windows that boast a terrific view of the Castle gardens. The table is set, and he hears the servants bustling in the kitchen, but the room is otherwise empty, barring himself.

His shoulders drop, somewhat relieved of their tension, and he reckons that perhaps running late is a quirk of Sir Galahad’s. Unsure of what to do with his time, he admires the set-up of the table, it’s glinting silverware and candlesticks engraved with stags, and especially the centrepiece made up of strange, pink flowers he has never seen before.

He walks up to them, and carefully cradles one in the cage of his fingers, gently caressing the many pink petals and thinks how his mother would love them.

“Camellias,” a deep, now vaguely familiar voice breaks the silence.

Eggsy’s gaze quickly shifts up and he finds Sir Galahad standing in the doorway, appraising the scene before him, every bit as immaculate as he always is, but strangely different without his cape and armour. Yet, even in his more casual garb, it is impossible not to see a distinguished man of great acclaim and power – or, at least, to Eggsy it is.

“Very pretty, don’t you think so?”

There is a pause, and it takes him a moment to realise he should answer the question, so he does so with an embarrassingly fumbled, “Y-yeah, they are, sir.”

He thinks he sees the knight’s mouth twitching upwards before he continues talking, steadily making his way to the table as he speaks. “Rather unusual, as well. You won’t find them this far north, as the climate is unkind to them. We have learned how to grow them in the South, but they are in truth natives of the Far East. These were brought to me from White Haven, just yesterday.”

Sir Galahad comes to a stop by the head of the table, while Eggsy watches him with bated breath. The knight looks at him with something akin to curiosity for a moment, and then gestures to the table.

“Now then. Shall we eat?”

It is a somewhat tense affair on Eggsy’s part, as he is still very wary of the man who is his companion for the morning. He is anticipating the presence of the cold, unattainable knight he has unconsciously painted him to be, but finds his expectations have led him astray.

Sir Galahad is a gracious host and a very good companion. He easily holds conversation between bites of his meal, but is also very accommodating and makes sure to include Eggsy by subtly requesting his opinions on anything from recent weather to the sweetness of the grapes they nibble on, and is always ready to change the topic to suit a change of tone. There is a kind sort of warmth to his manner, and while they are impeccable, not unlike his language, he has not flinched once in regard to Eggsy’s own lack of them.

Instead, he asks him what he thinks of the halls, and how his acquaintanceship with Sir Ulric fares. Eggsy, more relaxed than he could have hoped to be around the knight, replies that his rooms are good, withholding just how overwhelmingly delightful he has found them, and on the issue of Sir Ulric admits that he finds him a very kind man, very talkative and prone to moan about Sir Hildegard, to which Sir Galahad allows himself a chuckle.

When Eggsy cautiously also utters that he “talks lots about you too, sir”, the man goes as far as to tell a joke on Sir Ulric’s gallant honesty, for “whether he has had a drop of wine or half of a barrel, Sir Ulric is more garrulous than the entire court gathered together.”

Eggsy can’t help a disbelieving laugh, and is afterwards not at all afraid to crack his own jokes when they talk about his time in the barracks before the recruitment, much so the knight’s amusement.

At the end of their meal, he feels very content, for the food had been excellent, yet he is bustling with a sort of excitement over having held a casual conversation with a King’s Man knight – _Sir Galahad_ , nonetheless – and he is perhaps a bit too eager to accept when he is prepositioned to join him for a walk outside.

He still feels a little tense while he walks alongside Sir Galahad down the corridors overlooking the gardens, but it disperses slowly as conversation flows easily between them; the knight urges him through subtle wording to speak his mind and ask whatever he may think to inquire, to which Eggsy soon complies.

“So before you was a knight, was you a swordsman?”

“Of sorts,” Sir Galahad acknowledges. “I spent my youth crossing swords with the House Knights residing in White Haven, where I grew up. They turned me into quite the capable swordsman. I was always rather fascinated with their codes of chivalry, and on my very first tour of the capital, I was given the opportunity to train in the barracks—I was of course far too tempted to decline, to my mother’s horror.”

Eggsy grins widely, finding a sort of comforted delight in knowing that even a mighty King’s Man such as Sir Galahad has faced scenarios involving a mother’s ire, much like himself.

“But you stayed here, yeah? Did you ever go back?” he asks next, though a bit hesitant, as the question obviously reflects his own current state of home affairs.

The taller man hums. “I still consider White Haven my home, even though my duties keep me in Camelot more often than not. I was however, upon request of course, stationed in the White Keep immediately after gaining my knighthood and enjoyed my time close to home—though a three day travel isn’t very far to begin with, I suppose,” Sir Galahad contemplates. “If you were thinking about my mother’s feelings on the matter, she was regrettably very much used to the men in her life leaving home to follow the way of sword. My father was a knight as well—much like yours.”

This sudden confession to having known his father fills him with curiosity.

“You really knew my dad?” Eggsy asks, awestruck, and the knight hums softly, affirming his question.

“Indeed I did, albeit very briefly. Lee was a great man, and a good knight,” says Sir Galahad, and then glances momentarily at Eggsy. “You are the spitting image of him.”

Eggsy wants desperately to ask more, having never really known his father aside from what little the guardsmen had told him, but just then they walk by the House’s training grounds and they are interrupted by the guardsmen greeting them. Instead of the nods of their heads that Sir Ulric would usually receive, the curtesy reserved for Sir Galahad is composed of deep bows and clear shouts of “Good morning, sir.” But they are similarly cheerful, and Sir Galahad nods at each of them, raising a hand to have them fall out and resume their activities.

Soon enough, Sir Hildegard approaches them clad in her light armour. The House Knight bows to her King’s Man and then asks if they are looking to make use of the grounds this morning.

“I hadn’t intended to,” Sir Galahad concedes, “but as we are already here… What do you say, Mr Unwin? Shall we spar?”

The request catches Eggsy entirely off guard, but he nervously replies, “Of course, sir,” more out of fear of disrespecting the knight than actually wishing to take the offer.

Sir Galahad nods. “Very good. We shall have a go with the swords, then.” No sooner than he has said this, a house guard accumulates the blunted blades and delivers them to the knight. Sir Galahad in turn tests their grip and weight, and when satisfied by their balance he hands one to Eggsy.

“ _Sir_ ,” Sir Hildegard interjects, “Mr Unwin hasn’t started his training yet. Surely I, or a guardsman, could serve as his opponent for now?”

Her suggestion is rebuffed.

“You have my gratitude for your insight. However, I wish to know his ability in person. Now, Mr Unwin,” Sir Galahad turns to him with his sword; gone from his face is all his previous humour replaced with an unreadable mask of solemnity. “Take your stance, if you please.”

Eggsy does, and swallows to moisten his drying throat as they bow, stomach churning with a mix of anticipation, delight, and genuine dread, for he knows he cannot beat a seasoned King’s Man, or even come close to it, as he is now, and will possibly leave the duel in a lot of hurt. But as they take their stances, and face off against each other, he resolves to, at the very least, land a good hit.

The guardsmen gather around them, and Sir Hildegard observes them cautiously from the side. The air is tense with anticipation, the gathered crowd murmuring amongst each other, and every pair of eyes are focused on them.

Eggsy takes a deep breath and thinks that this spar, this moment, is his chance to prove himself. If he shows himself somewhat capable here, it will surely become key to continuing his apprenticeship and avoid the dismissal he has been dreading. So with a determined mind, he studies Sir Galahad’s unreadable expression for another second, and with all the force and strength he can muster, he takes the first strike.

About a minute into their spar, Eggsy finds he can’t land a single hit.

Every slash he makes, every stab he delivers, is expertly parried, and he is often forced to retreat to regain his grip on the sword. Sir Galahad doesn’t follow, and he gathers himself quickly before lashing out again. The knight parries once more, and Eggsy curses himself for leaving an opening, but the knight doesn’t pursue it, and Eggsy realises he is _purposefully_ letting him retreat.

The realisation irks him greatly. He is already building up a sweat, breathing turning more and more laboured with every attempt at attack, while Sir Galahad looks barely moved. He has to bite the inside of his cheek not to lash out in frustration when the man avoids taking advantage of an opening a second time.

With determination, he thrusts forward, forcing Sir Galahad to clash with him. He glares up at the knight, feeling the rage building up inside him, only succeeding to find that same unreadable expression set with cold, calculating eyes looking back at him, but a second later, as he goes to draw back, he feels a pressure at his ankle that promptly makes him lose his footing. He lands gracelessly on the ground, tripped over the knight’s polished boot.

There is scattered laughter as he scrambles to his feet, now far too flustered and angry to think with a clear mind. Two can play this game, he thinks, and the next time he goes in to attack, it is with a fairly dirty trick in mind.

With a slide of his left leg, he kicks up dirt into the air, and when the knight is distracted, he pounces. He doesn’t expect it to be enough to catch a King’s Man off guard, and is right when the knight regains his stance within seconds, but when Eggsy makes his next step he makes an unexpected flip, mid-air, swinging his blade in an upward vertical slice as he does so, and is sure he’ll land hit by the element of surprise alone.

But he doesn’t, and next thing he knows the ground is pulled out beneath him and he lands flat on his back, the air in his lung escaping him with a groan.

When his head stops spinning enough for him to look up, a sword tip is at his nose, and Sir Galahad is looking down the edge of the blade with a strange glimmer in his eyes.

“One of the best of this year’s candidates, yes. But there is a lot more for you to learn, Mr Unwin,” the knight proclaims. He withdraws the blade, hands it to the nearest guardsman with a nod, then turns around on his heels and swiftly departs.

The guardsmen stare silently, and Eggsy feels the humiliation burn in his cheeks, as he comprehends what has just transpired; why Sir Galahad would gain his good favour, invite him for a pleasant walk and then challenge and utterly annihilate him in front of the House, only to leave him on the ground in a hurry, remains entirely beyond him.

Sir Hildegard attempts to help him up, but he rejects her angrily as he clambers to his feet, refusing to meet anyone’s eyes when he makes for his room.

As he rushes down the corridors, his anger wanes to make way for the churning anxiety, for he is suddenly uncertain if his unbecoming defeat might mean that Sir Galahad is about to let go of him, as with the previous apprentices, on his _second day_.

The thought makes him sick, and he hides away in his room until the afternoon bell calls for him to head off to the Common Halls for his first lesson with Merlin.

-

He doesn’t see Sir Galahad for the rest of the week.

The majority of his time is spent training with the House Knights, or under Merlin.

With the former, he is more often than not set to memorise House history and customs. He also receives a lesson on how to greet and bow to knights, captains and royalty of different ranks. They are long, tedious sessions often spent in the common rooms, but while neither Sir Hildegard, nor Ulric, can inspire in him a passion for the topics, he is determined to learn everything he can to make up for the humiliation he had been caused in the beginning of that week. They both seem pleased with his progress, and by the end of the fourth day Sir Ulric gives him access to the shed where they keep their training equipment.

He makes a habit of working up a sweat on the training grounds every morning before breakfast, not wanting his body to become as dull as the practice swords he uses.

With Merlin’s lessons, he has Roxy and the others with him, so the sessions aren’t as dreadfully dull. Within the first week, they have covered a large part of general weapon and armour expertise through memorising the differences between dozens of examples borrowed from the court’s smiths. Merlin has also started a series of lectures on history and politics, and while, again, Eggsy finds his attention slipping, he forces himself to focus on memorising persons and events from the creation of the Kingdom as best as he can.

And so the first week passes, and the second one steadily runs its course.

But he isn’t kicked out. Hugo is the first to admit his disbelief, amazed that he shows up on the first day of the second week. Roxy is very proud of him, her anxiousness for him very nearly diminished when he keeps showing up for lessons.

Eggsy, personally, feels very confounded. Sometimes, when he is alone in his room, he finds himself wondering if Sir Galahad might have simply forgotten to dismiss him. He thinks back to how Charlie, and Rufus and Digby, and even the occasional guardsmen, would denounce his presence for the entirety of the first week, but when he was still there the second week…

Well, he thinks to himself, the betting pools Hugo had spoken of must have been decisively less profitable that year. Or very profitable for someone, he soon learns, for the guardsmen, who upon the second week seem keener to talk to him, tell him there are apparently a few gamblers who had bet he would stay longer: anywhere between another week and permanently.

The thought makes him grin like a madman, but he doesn’t let himself relax just yet.

The remainder of his new wardrobe soon arrives, as does a light leather armour for his training, along with gloves and a selection of belts and straps to go with it.

Sir Ulric says that they will make him a heavy armour if he proves himself to be of knighthood material. With his new armour on hand, the knight invites him to the training grounds to practice manoeuvring in it. He quickly learns he will need to work on his endurance, should he be able to fight as well in armour as without it, and he can only dream to fight covered in chainmail and metal plates the way he is at this point.

Eggsy learns of the court kennels from one of the maidservants who cleans his rooms. She offers to take him there in his leisure, and he ends up spending many afternoons enjoying the company of the court’s hunting hounds, though the smaller court dogs also charm their way into his heart.

In the outer citadel, there had been a few strays lurking around their streets that no one could afford to take in, and a few of the watchmen would bring their hounds on patrol every now and again, but he had never actually had the chance to be around any canines. He tells Roxy about them, who seems thrilled, and they resolve to go together as soon as they both have an afternoon off.

He also spends time getting to know the guardsmen, and they often invite him to drink with them in the evenings. He frequently accepts, partly so socialise and make acquaintances, mostly to have a laugh when Sir Ulric joins them and turns a drink or two into a contest of sobriety as they work towards finishing the barrel of the evening. Eggsy has never known a man to drink so much wine in an evening, and still walk straight the morning after.

The guardsmen now regularly invite him to shoot at impossible targets along the far castle walls, as they’ve learned he is a terrific marksman. They find much entertainment in having him hit poles on the first or at least his second tries, or in having him shoot down the flag on the tower of the wing that apparently belongs to House Bedivere, and Eggsy delights in their merry praise as they ask him to share the secrets to his abilities.

It is on the fifth day of his second week that he receives word from Sir Hildegard that Sir Galahad wishes to meet with him in the House library to discuss his progress, which he is required to as the Head of the house. The requested time is the next day at noon, and he is assured the meeting shouldn’t take more than a half-hour.

Eggsy hasn’t seen Sir Galahad since the morning they sparred. He had overheard some house guards say he had been away from court and had returned the day prior. Roxy tells him she meets quite regularly with Sir Percival, and is quite shocked that he hasn’t seen Sir Galahad but once since his recruitment.

Thus, the next day Eggsy waits outside the library in the vacant corridor that overlooks the castle grounds. The noon bell chimes, and, as he should have been able to predict by then, Sir Galahad has not yet arrived.

Late April has become warm, and the weather has especially surprised them that day with a blazing sun worthy of the summer months. Therefore, the guards have opted to train without their shirts and stuffy mails.

Without much else to do, Eggsy stands by the wall, leans comfortably against a pillar, and absentmindedly watches their sparring. As his mind wanders, he is reminded of the time as a young boy he had first recognised his preference for men when he had snuck up to the upper citadel to spy on the trainees in the court barracks. He feels his face flush as he remembers returning there many times that summer to stare at the swordsmen, finding exhilarating enjoyment in watching their lean forms move and clash across the yard. It had been a very exciting season.

Shifting his stance against the stone as he reminisces, he realises that he hasn’t really had the time or opportunity to handle himself since his endorsement into the barracks. He has always been surrounded by company or too tired to consider it. Eggsy gnaws on his lip as he thinks on it, weighing his chances, and then finally decides to roll with his senses and take advantage of his situation.

He has had very little experience on his own, and hadn’t dared take another partner after the incident with the farm-boy in fear of their safety, and his own. But he has plenty of imagination, and equally plenty of material for his fantasies to take shape. So Eggsy observes the honed guardsmen, and imagines being pressed up against the pillar by one of those strong, fit bodies, forcing him down as he pushes back. He pictures large, sturdy fingers running over his chest, then his thighs and his groin while he lets his own hand rub his rapidly hardening cock through his straining trousers, and he breathes out a moan.

He is confident he won’t be seen by the guardsmen, as the shadow of the castle conceals him from view. All he needs to do is keep his voice down. So he does, only permitting quiet gasps as he keeps touching himself to the imaginary stranger who pins him against the cold stone. As his mind wanders, he remembers being in a similar situation many times before, when sparring in the barracks, though he was usually the one doing the pinning, until Sir Galahad had…

… _oh_ , that certainly made his cock twitch with interest, and Eggsy soon abandons the attempt to shy away from the thought, because _Sir Galahad_ … Yes, he was fit, more trained than any of the guardsmen or trainees he had ever fought, and very, _very nice_ to look at. His face was beyond becoming, and just about everything about him was elegant and powerful. He had felt that power up close when they had sparred, and through that hand on his shoulder during the ceremony that he now imagines forcing him down rather than raising him up, guiding him to a large, bulging crotch, and Sir Galahad’s handsome face looking at him with kind, honeyed eyes, yet expectant, urging him forward, wanting Eggsy as much as Eggsy wanted him.

Eggsy is as hard as he has ever been. He gasps as he moves his hand and tightens his grip on his bollocks, and to the thought of the gorgeous knight calling his name, a moan of “Yes, yes sir” escapes from his lips into the empty hallway.

Except the hallway answers back, in a familiar, deep voice that calls out to him.

“Gary.”

Eggsy’s eyes shoot open – he cannot remember closing them in the first place – and he sees the man he had been thinking of, Sir Galahad, standing in the open doorway of the library. He must have been waiting for him inside, Eggsy realises, opting to look outside when he had failed to show after the noon bell. He sees those smouldering eyes make their way down his form, and cusses breathily as he scrambles to cover his bulging crotch, though he soon cares to think that, really, this only makes his state of arousal more evident, and he is too mortified to keep his gaze on the knight.

He feels the footsteps approaching him rather than hears them, and suddenly Sir Galahad is so, so close – closer than is strictly appropriate – and Eggsy can nearly feel his breaths across his cheeks, and he says, “Look at me.”

He resists for a second, but finds that he cannot disobey, so he resolves that he will look up as defiant and calm as he can muster, but as he goes to do so a hand that isn’t his own touches the sensitive bulge in his trousers. He barely cuts off the rather embarrassing groan that nearly escapes him, and whips his head up to glare at the knight with all his confusion and ire, but is made breathless by the strange, molten expression in the warm eyes that meet his.

“Good boy,” Sir Galahad murmurs. His voice is as low as a whisper in the empty hallway, and Eggsy feels his entire being preen with the praise.

Eggsy knows he should probably say something, make sense of the situation somehow, but when he goes to speak Sir Galahad hushes him by continuing to rub the hardness in his clothes, drawing another cut-off groan from him, for those fingers feel so, so good on his cock, even when shielded by the material of his trousers and would feel even better without them.

A breathy chuckle leaves the man, and Eggsy is tempted to turn away when he suddenly warns, voice clear and decisive, “If you break your gaze away from mine, this stops now.”

Eggsy blinks and swallows drily, frozen in place as the knight holds his gaze and leans further into his space, his very presence forcing him back against the stone with their foreheads nearly touching. Their only point of contact is the hand on his crotch.

“If this isn’t what you want, look away,” Sir Galahad continues, “If you do desire this…then keep your eyes on mine.” And then, tantalizingly, a recollection of their first meeting, “Do you understand your situation?”

And Eggsy doesn’t trust his voice to answer, can only nod in reply, never straying from the smouldering gaze digging into his. A nearly victorious smile plays across Sir Galahad’s lips as he says, “Good,” and then presses Eggsy further against the wall, a strong, thick thigh digging between his and rubbing against his crotch.

Eggsy gasps, eagerly pressing back against the lovely friction sliding against him, creating sparks of pleasure that travel up and down his spine, pooling in his groin. He is so preoccupied with holding the knight’s gaze that he doesn’t notice the hand that makes quick work of unbuttoning his trousers before it dips into his smallclothes and wraps around his heated flesh. He very nearly whimpers at the new sensation, electing to bite down on his lip when the hand starts moving over his shaft, feeling thoroughly humiliated by how sensitive he is to the man’s touch.

He lets him know though his most defiant glare, but Sir Galahad’s eyes only grow darker and hotter, and he twists his wrist at his crown just at the right moment, eliciting an appreciating mewl from deep within his chest.

“Very, very good, Gary,” the knight praises softly, something rough burning in his voice, his free hand tenderly stroking his jaw, thumb soothing the generous flesh of his bottom lip, as if he isn’t giving Eggsy the treatment of his life with the other, rubbing against his leaking slit. “You are very close, are you not?”

Eggsy can only whine and moan, as the warmth tightening in his gut doesn’t allow for much else, though he stutters out a pleading, “P-Please sir, _oh fuck_ , _please_ …”

The man gives a grunt of approval. “You will keep your eyes on me when you come.”

And Eggsy is happy to obey the order, forcing himself to keep them steadfastly on Sir Galahad’s, even when the tightening in his groin is too much and the hand on his cock jerks him faster and harder, until finally a flash of white overcomes his vision and he cries out as he comes, spurting his load inside his smallclothes.

When colour once more enters his sight, his eyes are still on Sir Galahad who is looking down at him with parted lips and a strange churning in his smouldering eyes. The knight is the one to break their gaze and pull back a short step, not enough to be at a more appropriate distance, but enough for Eggsy to redo his buttons with shaky hands, and straighten himself against the pillar with equally shaky legs.

There is a short silence before Sir Galahad speaks again, voice calm and untainted, as if nothing out of the ordinary has transpired between them, “It seems we were unable to carry out our meeting this afternoon. As we’re both very busy until evening, we shall have to postpone it further.” The next words, however, are loaded with meaning, spoken with a low undertone, as the knight declares, “Meet me in my study after supper, and we shall discuss further… _arrangements_ for your training.”

Just as he had arrived, Sir Galahad departs, leaving Eggsy with stained trousers and churning thought in regards of what had just transpired.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter, some very different proposals are made, and Eggsy needs to really reconsider his choices...


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been fighting with this chapter for such a long time...  
> To any returning readers, hello, I am indeed not dead, and I hope you enjoy the new chapter (although I'll be surprised if you remember the other three haha)  
> To any new readers, Welcome!
> 
> (Now watch me go another 10 month hiatus.)  
> (I'm joking.)  
> (Maybe.)  
> -A

_Chapter 4_

Eggsy rushes through the corridors, near sprinting, albeit somewhat gingerly, as he makes for his rooms. He needs to redress, change out of his soiled garments and make himself presentable before meeting with Merlin for his lessons, and he is already behind on his intended schedule. His thumping steps resonate far louder in his ears than they do in reality; they make him anxious, for he is set on avoiding crossing paths with anyone who might see him in his improper state and speak of it later, be it servants, guardsmen, or knights.

With great luck, he meets none of the aforementioned on his way, as the hour before luncheon has the servants busy elsewhere in the castle; most of the guards he had already accounted for out in the yard.

Once he’s within the safety of his chambers, locked away from any scrutinising stares, he wrings off his belts and trousers, wincing as the drying cum sticks lewdly against his skin, a vivid evidence of what scandalous proclivities he has just partaken in. Suddenly, his unsoiled tunic feels just as stained as his ruined smallclothes; he undresses entirely and cleans himself of the mess with cold water, as his fireplace has not yet been lit to warm the pipes so early in the day. He scrubs furiously at the stain and hopes the chambermaid won’t take note of it when she picks up his linens. It would greatly humiliate him should she speak of it to the other servants and spark rumours of his penchants. Lastly, he dunks his face in the basin by his desk, hoping to cool his flustered cheeks with a splash of refreshing water. It doesn’t help by much, and really only debauches his state further, but he hasn’t got the time to dally on it.

By the time he is redressed in another set of garments, the first afternoon bell has already rung and Eggsy once again hurries through the hallway towards the Hall of Commons, more comfortable in his spurt without the wet in his trousers distracting him. He passes some guards he has come to know on his way. They call after him in jest, laughing at his apparent distress, as they know he must be running late for his lessons, but Eggsy’s thoughts are so troubled through it all, he can’t even take the time to retort or be embarrassed by any by it.

All the while, his mind is plagued by what has just taken place between Sir Galahad and himself, and what will happen when they meet again that approaching evening.

Merlin reprimands him for his tardiness when he arrives. He makes him stand at attention before his fellow apprentices and repeat the basic classifications of long swords they had gone through in the previous lesson, as well as name all the regions and their governing keeps. All the while, Rufus and Digby snigger behind him, scarcely attempting to conceal their glee whenever he struggles to place a name, contributing to his growing frustration.

His answers are satisfactory though, and after another slap on the wrist and a murmured warning not to adapt the more “infuriating habits” of his House, he is allowed to sit and continue the lesson.

In the end, Eggsy can’t, for the life of him, focus on the geographical difficulties in the Battle of Wolfpine, or which knight or captain contributed to its victory. Instead, his mind wanders back to the corridor, to the dark, smouldering eyes gazing into his, causing his heart to throb a little faster, and to the shrouded meaning of those parting words.

 _Arrangements_. It is such a vague term, and he gnaws his lip as he thinks on its implications.

Sir Galahad, he ponders, is an enigma: a confounding puzzle to which he lacks all but a few pieces. To think, they have met but a grand total of four times! And of the four, only for one of them has he actually held a conversation with the Knight lasting longer than a scant minute. They have spent very little time together, indeed; whereas the other King’s Men regularly met with their apprentices, as Sir Percival does with Roxy, Sir Galahad has hardly been present for his training, and he had not seen him at all since the humiliating events on the training grounds the week previous—until earlier that afternoon, that is, under such wildly confounding circumstances.

So why, just now, has he revealed such a sudden interest? For a long minute, Eggsy considers that Sir Galahad’s newfound attentions for him are purely a carnal perversity. A pretty willing mouth to have at hand is far more convenient than calling for a tavern girl or maintaining a lover at court, surely; someone who’s quarters are quaintly situated in nearly the same corridor to call to his chambers whenever the need should arise. He swallows drily, deeply ashamed that he doesn’t find this scenario as repulsive as he perhaps ought to – and he remembers vividly that the very thought of being on his knees, servicing Sir Galahad just so, had but an hour earlier served to fuel his own salacious fantasies.

Though he loathes thinking that the situation is solely as such, the events that had just transpired did favour this outcome, and while disappointing to consider that his worth is not measured in his skills and accomplishments, but in the pleasantness of his face, it isn’t altogether…unpleasant to think it.

 _And,_ Eggsy reasons, if accepting such a proposition will allow him to stay and continue his training, surely it will benefit him in attaining his original goals, in the long run.

But just how long of a run will it be? Will he be let go of once Sir Galahad tires of him? Perhaps Sir Galahad is expecting a more experienced lover, who will know how to use their mouth and hands to please him, of which calibre Eggsy is certainly not. Then, what will happen? But, in the end, had he not time and again proven to be so very different from the unattainable knight Eggsy had pegged him to be? For all his ideas and pondering, Eggsy does not know what unpredictable designs this man has in mind for these _arrangements_ —nor does he know the consequences of accepting them.

Or declining them. What happens if he says _no_? He frowns deeply as a terrible notion troubles him: how many others before him had Sir Galahad approached and prepositioned? How many had been dismissed for rejecting him—or not attaining his standards? Could this be the explanation for the array of apprentices rejected from the House in the past?

These concerns keep him deep in thought for the better part of the lesson, as mulling over one scenario seems to lead to discovering another.

Roxy has undoubtedly noticed his absent mind, and it is very telling of her perceptiveness how quickly she enquires about his meeting when they break for a change of topic. He conveniently tells her it was postponed to the evening, which is not entirely untrue. He suspects Merlin, too, has detected his distraction, but he avoids bringing it up as long as he continues to answer his questions adequately, when asked.

At their dismissal, Roxy has to remind him of their agreement to go the kennels together that afternoon, which speaks volumes of just how out of sorts thinking of Sir Galahad has him.

The dogs do get his mind off of it all, for a bit. He watches Roxy, who is adept with canines as she was brought up with her father’s hunting hounds, teach a playful pup to fetch sticks. He joins in himself with another, much smaller dog who is inclined not to take his command, preferring to roll around in the grass rather than hunt down a piece of wood. Roxy laughs for a full long minute as he tries to persuade the pup to take interest in his game, only to be flat out rejected as it crouches down and defecates by his feet. He laughs along with her, but no matter how lovely their time in the kennel is, the matters plaguing him still lingers at the very back of his mind.

“Your face was red during the lessons. Are you certain I shan’t call on the physicians?” Roxy asks him as they walk back to the castle, and he feels terrible for making her concerned with his health.

Only after he promises her he shall send summons to the House of Ector if he doesn’t recover does she part with him in the Hall of Commons. She clenches his hand tightly, an anchor of reassurance that she will support him as she has since they first met in the barracks, and then sets off to the Halls of Percival in the west wing of the castle.

Eggsy doesn’t see Sir Galahad during supper. He has long since learned that the knight doesn’t regularly take his meals with the House as the House Knights do, but according to Sir Ulric this is solely due to his extremely busy schedule, as one of the greatest King’s Men alive. He often dines with other King’s Men, or even the King himself at court, or, more often than not, with foreign diplomats to ensure their future loyalty in their alliances. As the King’s governing hand in the Hartlands, where a major part of the Kingdom’s trade runs through the harbours, it is especially important for Sir Galahad to keep up to date with the most powerful tycoons and merchants of the lands and seas.

When not wound up in his business, it is understandable that he wishes to have his remaining meals for himself, in the company of peace and quiet. Although, Sir Ulric assures him, he makes it a point to eat with the House Knights at least once a week, more often if he can help it. He imagines sir Galahad just then, seated alone by an empty table dished out with a lavish selection of woods and wines, but no one in his presence to share in their joys.

As lonesome a thought that is, Eggsy is relieved he doesn’t have to face the man just yet. He doesn’t know what he would make of silent conversation carried through stolen glances over the bustling crowd of the dining hall, where there is no guarantee his attentions won’t be noticed or remarked on.

-

After supper, as requested, Eggsy walks up the stairway that leads to Sir Galahad’s study. He takes a detour by his rooms to wash his face and clean his teeth, feeling in need of an extra boost of confidence before leaving to face his fate. He still stands outside the intimidating double doors for an alarmingly long time, hoping desperately that no one will come by and find him there before he gathers the courage to go inside. Thoughts reeling and churning with this hollow anticipation, he eventually bites his cheek and wills them away. Raising a clenched fist, he determinedly knocks three consecutive times.

The heavy thuds are followed by a short silence, and then, almost immediately, a reply.

“Come in.”

The sound of his voice is muffled by the door, but it is undeniably Sir Galahad. Eggsy feels a shiver run down his back, the deep tenor throwing him back to the events earlier that day, stirring something deep in his gut.

But he cannot wait any longer, lest he be regarded as rude or, worse, _cowardly_. So he presses the cool handle on the door, pushes against the heavy wood, and crosses the threshold.

Inside, he cannot help but gape quietly as he observes the room he enters into. It is a rather large, elongated study, draped in warm, eloquent dark reds and greens, with another set of doors opposing the ones Eggsy has just come through; they are cracked open, but fail to allow a view into the chambers beyond. Half the room, the half to his right, is dedicated to a fireplace. There is a pair of large, elegant reading chairs stood by it, accompanied by small tables for holding drinks and books. Most notable, however, is the extravagant desk that stands in the centre of the other half of the room. The woodwork, as seen from the front, is highly detailed, made by a master carpenter to be sure; the surface is littered with parchment, quills, and inkbottles, books and scrolls stacked high, undoubtedly the workplace Sir Galahad utilises for his duties. The chair behind it is however empty.

Eggsy squints in confusion, but soon hears the shuffling of feet from the chamber beyond. He tries briefly to peer through the door, but reminds himself not to risk entering without an invitation. He attempts calming his nerves by wandering around the study instead, observing more of the room that belongs to the reverent knight.

The wall behind the desk is lined with the same tall windows the rest of the Halls sport, separated by tall bookcases filled to the brim with tomes and scrolls. The rest of the walls are covered with maps, tapestries and strange, foreign paintings. Some are framed, others are not; some are extraordinarily well done, others are a clutter of shape and colour. Some are done in a very strange style, littered with strange symbols Eggsy has never seen before and cannot possibly decipher; others are scenes of such amorous natures they leave him blushing as he averts his gaze.

There are also small statues and figurines displayed proudly on pedestals: anything from miniature ships inside of glass jars and bottles to strange persons of various stages of undress posing against pillars or by themselves, looking thinking, or ethereal, or otherwise out of this world. Altogether, it is such a strange, eccentric collection Eggsy thinks himself in a scholar’s sanctum rather than the private study of a King’s Man.

There is even a _dog_ , albeit a very small one, mounted on the wall over the fireplace, and Eggsy can’t help but stare at it in awed shock. Unconsciously, he reaches up to touch it, wondering quietly if it is indeed real, but quickly retracts his hand when the doors creak and Sir Galahad enters the room.

Eggsy nearly forgets to breathe as he sees the man, dressed down from his daily attire to his eveningwear, an outfit that lends him a tranquillity that even his casual garb had failed to attain when Eggsy had last seen him. The crimson robe hanging around his shoulders, decorated with golden thread at the hems, looks comfortable and oddly fitting for a man of his standing; his hair is combed aside, but curls neatly at the ends after a whole day of being tamed to his head, sharply framing his handsome face but also lending his features a sort of aged softness which Eggsy hasn’t taken note of previously. They make him no less handsome or desirable though, and Eggsy wonders quietly just how much his hair curls after a full night’s sleep, or a dunk in a steaming bath, and how it would feel to slide his fingers through their fullness.

“Mr Unwin,” Sir Galahad greets him, expression oddly neutral, yet pleasant, but Eggsy feels a pang of uncertainty as the knight walks to his desk rather than towards him to come stand in his space and invade his body, as he had imagined he would. Sir Galahad pulls out his own large chair, and then gestures to a smaller one stood opposite his desk. “Please, have a seat.”

Eggsy swallows to moisten his drying throat, and then does as he is told.

 _You will keep your eyes on me_. The words, spoken in that same voice, echo in his head and has his blood boil in anticipation. He feels his face prickle with heat, but he refuses to submit to his hesitations; he keeps his head raised, eyes fixed on his liege, subconsciously awaiting a new demand for him to follow.

The chair is soft, but Eggsy sits on its edge, tense and unable to indulge in its luxury. Sir Galahad doesn’t seem to take notice, or, at the very least, he is considerate enough to avoid mentioning it.

“Alright then,” the knight begins; he has spread out a length of pre-written parchment before him and an elegant quill lingers in the grip of his right hand, dipped in ink and ready for duty. “Let us talk about your current progress. Ulric and Hildegard all but sing your praises. You have shown tremendous advances in their lessons, and I hear your marksmanship is excellent—to the frustration of whoever maintains the banner of Bedivere’s Halls, I am sure.”

Eggsy is left gaping while Sir Galahad makes a few scratches on the parchment, and then glances up, the corner of his mouth curling into one of the smiles he had so freely shared with him that morning over a whole week ago.

“Bloody well done.”

Eggsy’s heart flutters as he says this. He nearly squirms under the heart-warming praise and that friendly demeanour he had once before been familiar with, but the suddenness of it all sends his head whirling with wariness and puzzlement—this was surely not the reason why he had been called to Sir Galahad’s private study? He barely gathers himself in time to voice his reply. “Thank you, sir.”

For the time following, Sir Galahad continues to talk about every aspect of his training. He takes note of his progress, queries about his lessons with Merlin and the other apprentices, how his light armour fits him and if he might require adjustments in the near future, about how he enjoys the Halls and his time with the House Knights and House Guards, if he makes use of the grounds, and so on. Occasionally he will pause and scribble something down on his parchment after Eggsy has answered a question of his. It is all how Eggsy imagines a King’s Man meeting with his apprentice would fare. In a way, it is very much like the conversation they had shared over that breakfast – flowing as gracefully as Sir Galahad allows it, carrying back and forth with his generous prompts, pushing Eggsy to share his meanings and opinions in an impeccable, diplomatic manner. Sir Galahad, as the perfect knight he is.

He nods and plays along, but in the privacy of his own thoughts, Eggsy feels lost. His expectations have wittered like cornflowers as the frost takes them, and in their place bloom the pink camellias that are not capable of growth even in the northern summer; it is a pleasant wonder, but an anomaly, nonetheless. He wonders abashedly if Sir Galahad has changed his mind from earlier, and no longer wishes any arrangement with him at all. The though leaves a surprisingly bitter taste in his mouth, and he strains not to let it show in his expression.

This all goes on for another quarter of an hour of agonising pleasantries until Sir Galahad puts a last scribble on the parchment and puts the quill down to rest.

He leans back into his chair, a certain grace to the movement that he employs in all things he does, but the air around him has changed. As has the look in his eyes. “While this concludes our official meeting, I believe we have another pending matter.”

All the tables turn once more along with the change of subject, and Eggsy feels the jittering in his nerves welling up again. He wasn’t avoiding it after all, then.

The knight rises from the chair and slowly walks around it; Eggsy quickly rises as well as the man comes to stand beside him, the distance between them yet far more respectable that it had been that afternoon, but still made strangely intimate by the manner in which Sir Galahad now studies his face.

They stand like this for a long moment, the sounds of their breathing and the cackling of the fireplace filling the room around them, while they remain locking gazes, observing the other with a degree of curious scrutiny. Eggsy can nearly taste the tension as it fluctuates between them, growing and subsiding, gentle yet harsh, as if it cannot decide whether to exist or desist. His lips have gone dry with his hushed breaths; when he goes to wet them with his tongue, Sir Galahad looks on and swallows quietly. The movement of his throat draws Eggsy’s eyes for a second, bobbing with the flexing skin, before they returns to his face where his breath is stolen from him, for he is certain his eyes have grown as dark and smouldering as he remembers them from when he had held their gaze scant hours before.

Finally, Sir Galahad speaks, his voice gone low and hushed as opposed to the clear manner he had spoken in throughout their meeting.

“If you are still amenable to discuss these aforementioned arrangement, please come join me in my chambers. If you have changed your mind over the course of the day, feel free to return to your quarters. I will however have it _completely_ understood,” he pauses here, “that whatever conclusion you may come to, your choice will not intrude upon your training in any way. Should you leave through these doors right now, we shall never speak of what happened this afternoon again, nor mention this meeting to anyone for any reason. This is between you and myself only.”

Eggsy considers, and doubts, his words, wondering not for first time if he is truly the only apprentice to have been offered these “arrangements”.

As he thinks this, Sir Galahad nods in a way of bidding his possibly imminent farewell, and then turns and walks through the doors from which he had emerged, leaving it open in a quiet invitation, and leaving Eggsy alone with his decisions.

One deep, bracing breath later, Eggsy puts his foot forward and follows.

Galahad’s bedchamber is easily twice the size of his study, and far more extravagant than Eggsy’s own. In the centre of the room, right before him, stands the bed he had offered silly thoughts to when he had newly discovered his own, which is, true to those silly thoughts, indeed much larger than his. He cannot fathom why a single man would have such a large bed, except to sleep in a different spot for every night of the week. There is also an even grander fireplace, just shy of the one in the common room, accompanied by large reading chairs and a strange piece of furniture Eggsy has never seen before, stocked with pillows and looking to be used for lounging on. There are bookshelves also here, filled to the brim in a somewhat organised fashion, but the walls see the same disarray as the study, albeit somewhat more uniformly. A large wardrobe and a dressing screen stand in the corner to the left of the doors, and a chest lingers in front of the bed, its contents a mystery. The windows, Eggsy realises, are not windows at all, but doors leading to a private balcony that must sport an excellent view of the northern fields where the Running River splits into the East and West Twins.

He tries to take it all in, but finds it hard to focus on any of the extravagancies while Sir Galahad is right there, with him, standing by the kingly bed where he is bathed in the bright paleness of moonlight through the glass doors, yet aglow with the warmth of the flames in the fireplace. He is, right then, an otherworldly being, a creature inspired by mythos and fairy-tales, having taken the shape of a tall, handsome man in order to meet with him that night. In fact, the entire scenario seems unreal and bizarre, and for a short moment, Eggsy wonders just what brought him to follow him there; but never once does it occur to him to turn around and leave. He stands his ground, and waits.

At first, the knight seems elusive of his presence, only glancing at him once the door has fallen shut behind him. He quickly falls into a squire’s attentive stance, as he remembers from his lessons, not daring to do or say anything but quietly observe the man fitting in so well with the lavishness of the room as he walks around it with a deliberate ease.

Only after he has adjusted a chair and stoked the fire does he turn to Eggsy.

“Gary,” Sir Galahad says lightly, as he would a casual greeting, and it is as if he is speaking to him for the first time that evening. But the sound of his given name is almost foreign on those lips; he has only heard it a few times before—and last had been that very afternoon, caught red-handed in an act of lascivious depravity. “Please, have a seat.”

Slowly, Eggsy moves to follow the request, his steps soft and calculated as he walks towards the fire and the waiting Sir Galahad. He opts for the seat closest to him, still rigid in his posture as he sinks down onto the cushion.

Sir Galahad doesn’t take a seat himself; instead, he moves closer to Eggsy, who parts his lips and holds his breath as a large, calloused hand—the very same one that had wrapped around his cock only hours prior and brought him to completion—come to rest on his head. The fingers comb gently through his trimmed locks, and come down to caress his slackened jaw. Without thinking, only feeling the tender caress to his skin, a kind sensation he hasn’t encountered before, Eggsy closes his eyes and leans into the touch—the touch of a lover—with a quiet sigh.

Above him, Sir Galahad hums softly with approval, running his thumb over the flesh of his sensitive lips, very much like he had done before, drawing a soft gasp from the boy as the touch rekindles the memory.

Then, he pulls away entirely, again showing himself the unpredictable entity that Eggsy just cannot pin down, and takes his seat in the chair across from him, giving him a short moment to gather himself from his stupor. By now, he is calm, but filled with a strange sort of apprehension as he has come to what should be a frightening realisation: he is not in control here, in this strange new territory, and his footing relies entirely on the man across from him to lead him along. Oddly, he is unsure if he even minds it.

“Your father was a brilliant man.”

Not for the first, nor the last time that evening, Eggsy is confounded by Sir Galahad’s choice of topic. It is not that he does not want to hear of his father—he is truly awed that Sir Galahad had known this man he knows so little of—but he had not thought their conversation would end up _there_ when he followed the knight into his bedchamber. In the given circumstances, he can’t but find it mildly discerning.

“Brave. Chivalrous. An excellent swordsman, skills befitting of a true King’s Man,” Galahad continues, pausing briefly to look at him, and Eggsy can’t stop the tug on his lips as he revels in his father’s achievements. To think his father had been a man deserving of the praise of the most esteemed King’s Man of his time! But Galahad’s expression is still gravely unrevealing as he goes on. “And having seen you in combat, I think he would be bitterly disappointed with how reckless you have let yourself become.”

Just like that, the heat of excitement dancing beneath his skin diminishes as if doused by icy rainwater. He feels his mouth drop open with the pure shock of it, and while he knows that the proper way to respond to this is by shutting up, or begging his pardon before courteously asking for an explanation of the statement, Eggsy _knows exactly_ what he has heard.

_A bitter disappointment._

They were the words of a highborn who had never lived in the gutters of their society, who had never had to struggle in the cold of winter storms because their hearths were always kindled and roaring, and who never had to worry about hunger as their food was prepared and served to them in plentiful portions. They were words of the kind spat at him so often by people like Charlie Hesketh, people like _Sir_ _Galahad_ , who had never feared for their lives or the lives of their families when a new sickness spread through the city, or feared that someone like Dean would come along with his fists and his hounds who would try to make good on your dignity, or your mother’s, or whatever you had left of your meagre pride.

He feels the cold rage building—no, not building, but erupting, for it is always there, waiting for him to draw on it—and with all his respect for the man before him quickly smouldering to ashes like the logs in the fireplace, there is no control left behind him to help him tread carefully when he snaps, heatedly, “You can’t talk to me like that.”

“Retorts to blunt force, underhanded tactics, little to no compassion for fellow trainees, incidences of broken bones and consequent sabotage, _lack of control_ ,” the knight rebuts calmly, hardly phrased by Eggsy’s outburst, and when he realises the man is simply rattling off what records must’ve existed on him from his time in the barracks, Eggsy seethes.

“You _saw_ where I was when we met,” he accuses, clenching the armrests of his chair, and once the dam breaks, the words don’t stop flooding out of him. “You saw where I was from—what I had to do. After dad died, that was where you people sent me and my mum—we had _nothing_. We was _begging_ for scraps to eat, we was. She fell sick that first winter—I was _five_ and fucking terrified my mum was gonna die ‘cos we couldn’t pay for medicines. People like you, up here in your fancy castles—you’ve never had to think about whether or not you’re going to eat that day when you wake up in mornin’, or if your family was gonna live through the damned day. Those pigs I was brawling—I was dealing with their bullshit every single _fucking_ day, hopin’ that maybe they’d let my mum alone if I just took it. You don’t know _a single fucking thing_ of what they did—what they tried to do to me—if I hadn’t, what they would do to…” by then, he is shaking, eyes burning and voice trembling and struggling to get the words out with the sheer frustration rushing over him, and all he can think is how much he wants to leave right then and there so he can find Dean and his dogs and fucking _murder them_.

In the other chair, Sir Galahad clears his throat. “If you’re quite done…”

The neutral tone of his voice should make him feel angrier, make him say that no, he is not “quite done” and has quite a few more things to say to his entitled, highborn arse. But at the same time, there is nothing left in him; it is like he has let out the hot air from a blacksmith’s shack, or poured water on a glowing iron rod, leaving him with the steam of the aftermath that doesn’t lend the energy for another such bout. He has said all the things that have weighed his mind ever since he first entered the barracks, all the pent up frustrations from dealing with the jests and the prejudice.

So he sinks back into the chair instead, huffing and crossing his arms, still glaring defiantly at Sir Galahad where he sits across from him with the patience and temperance of a tried farmer who awaits the harvest, unbothered by the passing storm.

“You are right,” Galahad begins. “I am aware of where you come from, but the reason you are in this House, as you were in the barracks before this, is because you are—like your father was—a man of potential, regardless of the hardships you have faced.”

“Yeah, and a minute ago I was a _bitter disappointment_ ,” Eggsy parrots sourly, but is truthfully flabbergasted with the implied likening to his father, soothing his temper a little further.

“Nothing that cannot be remedied,” Sir Galahad retorts, and rises to his feet.

Eggsy is about to rise with him, still feeling defensive in the aftermath of his outburst and a little on edge about how easefully Sir Galahad has handled it, but a raised hand halts him; he sinks back into his chair, watching carefully as the knight leans over the table between them, stocked with a rather large crystal decanter. He pours an amber brew, which glints like liquid fire in the light of the hearth, into two cups; picking them both up, he turns around and offers one to Eggsy. The younger man takes it hesitantly, holding it up to his nose to inspect its shimmering contents with a curious sniff.

Sir Galahad returns to his seat, and gives Eggsy a nod of encouragement. “Go on then, give it a taste.”

Eggsy, still filled with bravado from his speech, takes a large gulp, and immediately regrets it. The bitterness takes him by surprise, for he has never tasted anything quite like it; fire lights up in his throat, burning in a manner that is very different from the sweet wine they drink in the common room, or the malt ales he’s had in taverns, and pure restraint is the only thing keeping him from choking on it or spitting it out as he forces himself to swallow. There is an odd, smoky aftertaste that lingers in his nostrils, which isn’t all too unpleasant. He looks up to see Sir Galahad carefully sipping his own brewage as if it is any old wine, dark eyes glinting in humorous amusement as they look at him.

“A Northland whiskey,” the knight explains. “It was my father’s favourite while he resided there, distilled right inside the keep in Aberdyll. An acquired taste, I admit—and not very kind on the throat. There is a reason why we say men of the North speak with rough timbre, chilled from the blizzards and charred by harsh drink.”

Eggsy tries hard not to smile, but fails in the end. The taut tension between them seems to lessen considerably, and for a moment, he is embarrassed to think back to what he had said and done in his ire. It’s a notion that bothers him, how easy it is to forgive Sir Galahad—for he knows he is right, at least to some extent. Which is perhaps why he is surprised when the knight next recognises just that.

“I beg you believe me when I say you have every right to be angry at the injustice done to yourself and your family,” Galahad says clearly. “But I fear that your anger, and the way it clouds your mind, will sooner get you killed than aid you on your path to knighthood.”

The last word resonates in the room, and Eggsy’s eyes widen. “You think me… that I can be a knight.”

“I certainly do, which is, as previous mentioned, why you are here. If you are ready to adapt and change, you can transform.”

“Yeah, but how?” he asks, but he is not answered right away. Sir Galahad finishes his drink, and pours himself another; meanwhile, Eggsy lifts his own cup to his lips, hardly consuming anything, but waiting in anticipation for the man to continue.

Sir Galahad sits back down, and is silent for another moment before he speaks. “Courage, gentleness, courtesy, and chivalry.” Eggsy is confounded once more, but he doesn’t have to wait long before Galahad goes on. “Do not seek treason, nor unjust murder, and show mercy for those who ask.” The words are crisp and said with the confidence of a man who truly knows them and their meaning well. “Do not start battles for lesser goods.” He says the last part with finality, indicating he is finished. “Do you know what this means?”

Eggsy shakes his head, foregoing the politeness he has already forsaken earlier.

“Then let me teach you a lesson.” Sir Galahad smiles over the rim of his cup. “It’s the code of Knighthood,” he clarifies, and repeats, “Courage, gentleness, courtesy, and chivalry. These are the desired traits in a Knight of Camelot, some inherited, some taught through hard work. I believe you capable of possessing all of them, if given the right guidance.”

“Guidance from you?” Eggsy interrupts, flushing as he realises just how discourteous he is being and has been for most of this meeting. He fumbles with an apology, but isn’t sure how to phrase it without furthering his rudeness.

“Perhaps,” Galahad answers. “There are ways to embed these through taught example, although in your particular case… Your penchant for turning to latent rage when faced with struggle will be disruptive for the classic approach.”

Eggsy winces as he says this, electing instead to read into his meaning. “But…there is a different approach, then. One that’ll work for me.”

“Yes. After the events of this afternoon, I do believe I know of some effective methods to help you…seize control. Reign in your ire, so to speak,” Sir Galahad explains, taking another contemplating sip of his drink. “Tell me, Gary, when you utilise this anger, what sensations does it give you?”

“Like…how do I feel, you mean?” Eggsy asks and Sir Galahad nods.

He glances down at his hands where they encircle his cup: the same hands he has used for holding maces and spears and lances, for crushing his opponents with powerful swings and punches, and he frowns deeply in thought, slowly recalling the sensations of battling in the barracks, of fighting back when Dean’s dogs had gone after him.

“Free, I guess… floating, kind of. Like I don’t have to… _think_ , y’know?” He stops, turning his head slightly to glance at Galahad and gauge his reaction. He sits still, attentive, patiently waiting for him to finish. Eggsy struggles to find the words, feeling his palms grow sweaty around the warming cup. “Just… I just do what my instincts tell me to. Not _thinking_ all the time. It’s…good. It feels good.”

Galahad hums, fingers tapping rhythmically against his cup. “And does it satisfy you?”

Eggsy is uncertain what to answer to this. “I…guess. I like the winning, knowing I’m not…weak. Helpless.”

“Weak, you’re certainly not. It takes a particular sort of strength to make it as far as you have, given the circumstances, and this strength will support you further along your journey,” Sir Galahad assures him, once again calming his mood with his uplifting words that Eggsy realises are little encouragements and praises; he is almost embarrassed with how effective they are on him, and surely Sir Galahad has realised this influence by now. “Nevertheless, what you’re saying is very enlightening and I can now with confidence say I have made the correct predictions regarding this issue.”

“Yeah?” Eggsy sits up a little, eager to hear the verdict.

“I want to attempt to—shall we say— _pacify_ the sensations your uncontrolled anger offers you, and then train you to fight with a calm head that will hopefully remain _on_ your shoulders for the imminent future.” Eggsy snorts quietly, and Sir Galahad near smiles at his own quip. “The method we’ll employ is…rather unconventional, I admit. But I believe you will be amenable to attempt it,” the knight explains. “To put it bluntly…I wish to engage in congress with you.”

“Do what?” Eggsy frowns, not catching the meaning of the phrase.

Another humoured smile graces the man’s lips, but his eyes are filled with scorching intent as leans back languidly, prowess and confidence embedded in his very air and posture. “I want to know you intimately. I want to take you to my bed and uncover you, utterly and completely—to instruct your mind and body to obey my word and my will.”

The words are like smooth silk, sliding against his flushing skin. Their scandalous bluntness, so very like Sir Galahad as he has come to know him, evokes a dark want in his gut that sends goose bumps rising all over; yet, the same tantalising candour both alarms and arouses him—what is this talk, of instruction and obedience? He goes to protest it, but the words run dry in his mouth, and Galahad is not done.

“You wish not to think, you say.” The man finishes his second serving with a soft smack of his lips and discards the cup on the table. His eyes find Eggsy’s once more. “I can take away your thoughts and leave only the desire to please. I can relieve you of your control—train you to submit to my command, and open your mind to the possibilities your body offers. I wish to spread you out across my sheets, and my tables—on my floor if I so desire—and open you up until you truly understand the meaning of satisfaction. Our little encounter from this afternoon will be nothing compared to what I will give you. In the end, whatever gratification you’ve achieved through your little escapades will seem uninspiring and deficient, once you’ve known something more…fulfilling.”

By then, Eggsy has lost all ability to speak. Sir Galahad’s words have evoked a mindless beast, painted a scenario so beyond his wildest imaginations. He has instilled in him a hunger, a starvation he was previously unaware of, until now, this moment, in which it is almost painful that none of those baiting promises has yet been fulfilled.

He knows what Sir Galahad is offering him. While in unfamiliar waters, numbed by what can only be described as the depraved fantasies of a shameless man, he is not dumb to the meaning of what is said. Sir Galahad believes he can help Eggsy control his anger by mollifying whatever fulfilment it delivers him…and replacing it with another, an indulgence Sir Galahad offers to give. It is both dangerous and utterly alluring, and Eggsy is beyond frightened he will make the wrong choice no matter which decision he makes.

His utterly stunned reaction seems to please Sir Galahad, however, for he leans towards him with his humoured little smirk, baiting him to say something, anything. “Do you understand?”

Eggsy recognises the challenge, and quickly swallows his hesitations. “What do I have to do?”

Sir Galahad smiles, his indulgent, gentle smile, betrayed only by how his eyes have darkened into fiery pits of smouldering desire that leave him short of breath, for right then and there, the very object of that desire is _himself_. “Exactly what I tell you to do.”

Eggsy thinks, for a short moment, but his decision is already made. “…yeah. Yeah, alright.”

His answer is well received; Sir Galahad remains languid and graceful where he lounges in his chair, but there is something victorious in his airs that lightens his face. “Good. Now, there will be rules for what we do, which we will set in communion before we begin any sort of intimacy.” The knight’s eyes glint and Eggsy shudders with the implied intent. “I want you to think on what you will be willing to do, and what you will not, before you return to me with your final decision.”

Eggsy halters, bewildered. “My final decision? I said yes, didn’t I?” Was he to be sent away already, with none of those heavy promises fulfilled? Had he spent this entire evening in suspense of experiencing Sir Galahad’s touch, his unmistakable prowess, only to have to leave with his hungers unsated?

“This isn’t a choice one makes in the lieu of thinking,” the knight insists, severely. “It has been a rather emotional day, and if you are to invest in this approach of your own motivations, a good night’s rest and a day of careful consideration are in order.”

“But I just—I said I’d do whatever you want. Isn’t that the point?” Eggsy argues, peeved by this turn of events. “You say ‘come to bed with me’, I do what you say, and you get what you want.” _What we both want,_ he doesn’t say aloud.

Sir Galahad stares at him gravely, eyes heavy with both the smouldering intent that makes his heart race, but also a different sort of firm resolve. “I don’t believe you understand, Gary. If I had wanted to seduce you solely for my own gain, you would be clutching my linens right this very moment.”

Eggsy is stumped; he is lit all fiery hot from all these heated, weighted words, but put out by the finality in the man’s tone; he is a sword polished and sharpened, only to be put away to disuse. Dejectedly, he slumps back in his seat. “So…this it, then?”

“For now,” the knight confirms, but there is a restlessness to his answer, is if it displeases him, the same as it does Eggsy. “Unless…”

Eggsy straightens then, and observes the man carefully. Sir Galahad has brought a hand to his chin, and looks as if he contemplates a course of action. There is a glint in his eyes as he comes to a final decision.

“Gary. Stand up, if you please.”

Eggsy, anticipating a request of the sort, all but jumps to his feet, shaky as they are, fumbling as he puts his near empty cup on the table with the decanter. He stands up straight, chest falling and rising with the excited beats of his heart that only escalates when Sir Galahad rises as well. They stand next to each other again, like before, but much closer this time, and Eggsy’s breaths catch in his throat when their eyes meet, imminently, as close as they ever have, and Sir Galahad gently cradles his face in a large, calloused hand.

“I would like to kiss you, if I may.”

“Yes,” Eggsy’s answer comes quickly. _Goodness yes_.

Not a moment later, those thin, tempting lips are on his own. It is a chaste kiss, meant to be an introduction to the new nature of their acquaintance, but the sheer awareness of it, of this powerful, beautiful man desiring to know his mouth, stokes the embers that sparkle in the sinews of his very heart and sends his eyes fluttering shut as he gasps reverently into the kiss, his skin warming beneath his clothes.

His inability to hide his decadency is by no means unwelcome, for as soon as his lips part the hand on his cheek slides into his hair and pulls him closer; Sir Galahad devours him, teeth biting at his lips and tongue sliding in to accompany his own. He tastes of the Aberdyll whiskey they had shared and of something else, something entirely himself and Eggsy can’t stop a moan clambering at his throat in the heat of their passionate exchange. His hands twitch at his sides, as he doesn’t dare put them anywhere without the knight’s explicit permission—but eventually he thinks, _sod it all_ , and clutches at the robe over Sir Galahad’s upper arms, earning him a deep groan in response and a sharp nip at his now thoroughly abused bottom lip.

It lasts for many minutes, surely, and by the time it ends, he is dizzy with hot laden pleasure clouding his mind and his senses. He nearly whines when Sir Galahad lets go of his mouth with a last, chaste press to his throbbing flesh, and he blinks rapidly to rid himself of the haze. Their gaze meets once more, with Galahad’s hand still buried in his hair, and his own still clutching his robe dearly.

“Bloody hell,” he blasphemes with a laboured breath.

Galahad smiles, almost fondly. “Quite.”

He wants to kiss him again, and is sure such an incitement wouldn’t be opposed, but to Eggsy’s disappointment, Sir Galahad steps away instead, near wistful as he retracts his hand with a last cherishing touch to his jaw and Eggsy belatedly relieves his hands from his robe.

The knight observes him for a moment, eyes trailing his form and catching for a long moment on his puffy mouth before he straightens, once more the proper image of himself, albeit mouth reddened and robe somewhat ruffled.

“You will spend tomorrow by yourself,” Sir Galahad says next. “I will inform Ulric and Hildegard of your absence, and I believe you do not have any other commitment on your schedule. I recommend you visit the library, as they hardly see any visitor, or remain in your chambers.”

“Yeah, alright,” Eggsy concedes as his breath returns to him. The knight nods, courteously.

“Good. You will return here after supper, same as today, but go directly to my bedchamber. I have a meeting in my study to attend to before I will see you.” He pauses. “Now, listen carefully. If you do reconsider, and decide you will not follow this method, you will sit in this same chair when I enter, and we shall talk of the alternatives. If you still want this, as I do, I want you to wash yourself _thoroughly_ before going to supper. Then, once you are in this room, I want you to undress, fold your clothes and leave them on the chair. You will take a cushion and kneel on it by my chair, and remain so until I join you. Then I shall tell you our rules, and ask for anything you wish to add or retract. There will be time to talk about the more traditional aspects of your training at a later time, but immediately following…I will wish to have you.”

There is loaded meaning behind this that pulls unbearably on the heat in his gut. Eggsy feels giddy with it, and remains in the same daze as Sir Galahad bids him good night with a meaningful hand on his shoulder, and when he leaves and goes to his room, his posture wrecked by the long kiss and cock still stirring in his trousers when he unlocks his own door and immediately throws himself flat on his bed, thrilled, aglow, and exhausted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter, Eggsy makes his choices and "deals" with the consequences...

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so sorry.
> 
> ((There will be a lot of added tags, so check between updates))
> 
> You can find me on [tumblr](http://stupid-fat-penguin.tumblr.com/).


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